I want you to be my songbird,
He said.
But Lord, I protested,
I don’t have feathers
and I don’t have wings.
I’m just a plain little
brown bird-thing
in the bleakest of lands
and always forlorn
when the fierce winds blow,
and the mountain snow
drives me to hide,
cold and alone.

But you are the one I need,
said He,
mountain-born
and common bred,
akin to the trees
and heaven-fed,
stalking the path
of field and stone
and not afraid to sing alone.