THE SCRIBE
With sheets of old yellowed parchment spread out
the scribe sits down at his splintered worn desk,
and with withered hand he dips his quill
into a thick substance inside the inkwell,
and turns his face towards Heaven, blessed be He,
God of the universe, and praise to the One
who sits on the throne, all the earth be His.
It is not what the scribe hears with audible voice,
but what his heart hears and knows to be true
for that which is given him scribed upon
with sweeping gesture, flourish and swirls
the Hebraic characters penned in ink
are the scribe’s writings on ancient scrolls.
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Joyce E. Johnson © 2017
Reflections 