King James was here when I last thought it
to be a verse, centuries old, yet living among
the closely devoted, to England of old, yet
preaching anew, she studies him, his art of
language, of giant reference, it makes solid
prose of terse discussion.
Now we see a transliterated few with subscribe
to this breach, this shaft of light among ancient
buildings, of London, of Picadilly, of squares
when preachers took, lit upon hearts, paid with
blood to hold, to print this volume, and we will
sit, reeling of of the crime.
Freely we read, now lately, but spoiled with
digitized minds, of God who knew a new Spirit,
but old to the Kind, who gave ascent to scribes,
write, write, of Hebrew, Greek to us who know
this version, never to travel in dungeons where
tried they to breathe Spirit to printed page.
© 2019 Larry Ingram
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.