An Olympian torchbearer jumps for joy, himself at last; An Olympian Black stretches across a generation to shake a hand; And for a moment the world is right and grand; For a moment we stand in God's arms so close, so vast. Two lovers run to the lake and stroll in the sand; But she cries silently against a terrifying past And he opens himself to her pain, holding her fast; And for a moment heaven inbreaks unsought, unplanned. An old Black woman sick and tired refuses to take a back seat And a nation's fate is moved by the Finger of God. One by one, two by two, three by three, dancing to God's beat, Guns made into tractors, the way of Shalom we will trod. No longer alone, I for thou, thou for me, Seeking not heaven, but living heaven, united and free.
©1988, John A. Mills