Mystery

When a chile gets to be thirteen 
and ain't seen Christ yet,
she needs to set on de moaner's bench 
night and day.

Jesus, lover of my soul!

Hail, Mary, mother of God!

Let me to thy bosom fly!

Amen! Hallelujah!

Swing low, sweet chariot, 
Coming for to carry me home.

Sunday morning where the rhythm flows, 
how old nobody knows—
yet old as mystery, 
older than creed, 
basic and wondering
and lost as my need.

   Eli, eli!

   Te deum!

   Mahomet!

   Christ!

Father Bishop, Effendi, Mother Horne, 
Father Divine, a Rabbi black
as black was born,
a jack-leg preacher, a Ph.D.

   The mystery 
   and the darkness
   and the song
   and me.