Oh, bitty ink we shape to word
Oh, type-print tears and smiles
You shape the hugs where thought is stirred
To reach across the miles
You light the wick that sparks the dream
You transport meager thought
To places we have never been
By meandering jot
You paint the bank beside the brook
In winter-gilded sage
Or fling a flower-furnished nook
Upon a barren page
You make us brave, foolish or wise
Oh, word, what will you be?
As ink-drops rise to mammoth-size
For all the world to see
…for once you were a hidden slur
But then, from common pen
You shaped, for good or ill, the curve
That shapes the thoughts of men
Then, what momentous might you wield
For who knows where you go?
Or who will be touched by the yield
Where word-formed whispers flow?
I tremble as the hand is stirred
Who can its reach portend?
As touch shapes hidden thought to word
Oh, who can know its end?
Lord, hold the hand that holds the pen
And let our beacon shine
Your Word within our words; amen
And all the glory thine
© Janet Martin