Frederick heard: —In those dense old woods: —
Without a mother’s hand covering his hand
I have heard them, Spirit: —Reaching: —
From the pulpit on Sunday morning
Stretching again even: —Like a whine: —A half step more
I have seen the fugitive sweat bead slipping
In those wild songs first sung to a congregation
That comforted a soul hiding
Nearly: —Thank you, Spirit: —I have heard them
Which he turned into a portal: —
Somewhere in Baltimore
Delivering us closer to Glory: —
Over the water: —He walked: —He flew: —
Loved Closer
To Glory: —O Glory: —
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