The Song Will Insist and I Will Be Sung

What Trisagion is sung
by sans serif angels,
those fiery snakes with wings and eyes
leaving burning comet tails in the sky as they fall,
and could I sing along even if I knew the forgotten melody?

I’m trying to decipher the words
of that Jewish carpenter
who renounced his father’s name
and left his father’s home
to sing the blues out on Highway 61.

And I’m trying to follow
another wandering minstrel,
the one without den or nest,
as he sings the song of songs
for brokenhearted outcasts
with no voice of their own.

What song will we sing
for the one that’s been battered
and bruised and left bleeding,
for her that’s been burned
with the unholy coals of friendly fire?

Whom shall I send? And who will sing for us?

Outside, in the distance, the wind begins to howl,
and the song seems swallowed up.

Sing woe, and oh it’s me
among a people of hostile tongues.
I would lay down this weary tune;
I am tired and undone,
but the song will insist and I will be sung.