You can’t play the trombone while you’re holding a baby,
the choir director says, as he reaches for the child with his magic hands,

hands that lead us through the songs
in four-part harmony but with one voice.

We sing until the tunes put forth roots–
more trumpet-like here, more vocal character there.

We think tall vowels, line up the sounds, shape the stopping points
until the music becomes the living liturgy

articulating the pain and suffering of Christ. Singing liberates us.
After the last hymn, we float out of the cathedral doors.