How sweetly through the silent palace courts
Comes the sound of the king's harp,
And like the incense of the spikenard
The voice of David praising God floats grandly to the stars!
To his shepherd heart an altar stands beneath each living tree,
Each plot of grass becomes a holy place,
And the wild spaces are Jehova's house.
Yet, he plans a temple built of stone,
Girt round with ivory and inlaid with gold;
But says a hand that's greater still than his,
Of whom the prophet Nathan hath foretold,
Shall raise the temple up, not he, the man of many wars,
Not King David of the bloody sword.
Such strange misgivings trouble me of late,
Whether I am indeed the king's favorite,
For who can trust a man of many loves ?
And yet, no kingly whim should trouble me,
For this I know, nor need the prophet's word:
The thing that moves beneath my heart
Is a man child.
Here I create a king!
It matters not if David sing or weep,
Whether my lord has any favorite,
What discourse he holds with Nathan,
These trivial things
Touch not the Purpose that is in my soul.
The music stops. The king comes?
Tell him I am weary and would sleep.
Why should I bother with the king that is?
What I encompass is the king to be,
I hold the fate of Israel!
I do not praise God, I contend with Him,
Wrestle as Jacob wrestled all night long
And take by force the blessing.
