The fountain Arena

  A fortress we are made; Through the mounting praise  We have raised To the triune canonical lord. Whose hands have raised our lives. By one man we are beaten  By another, we have risen  In his heart, he lifts the unsound soul Fasten to the boundless pit again  At a priceless sinner prided pain. Soft and slowly; mundane and strong, Solo and brass, chord and string; The heart that's bruised is here to sing, New worship, of a new age. Ayeni Taiwo ©2022 Read: Other poems from this blog Previous post Photo credit: pixebay

Our souls wake on a Sunday morn Budding up with its maker con The bell chime in a crescendo Saying a cryptic psalm in piano Of hymn or a solo lines Making my Sunday morn merriments. We pam the word on a Sunday morn Daring the sun to play the pipe  Bouncing in places in symphony Blending the Clergy lyric with the pipe Piping a sonorous phone I won't ask my maker money on a Sunday morn For I saw his angel on this dawn With forty frosty miles bands of lost directors Swapping notes in melodious rhymes As we chants the Sunday morn ode Ayeni Taiwo ©2022 Read:  other poetry from this blog Previous post Photo credit: pexel