Under His Baton

He raised His hand to the heavens,
As the silence grew the more loud,
And each face looked so expectant,
In the orchestra and in the crowd.
As His hand approached the zenith,
Each player had taken a breath,
Every heart grew so expectant,
But each hand was still as death.

But the feeble drop of the baton,
Drew forth then a plaintiff tone,
And the song sobbed out in the night hall,
As the orchestra, it moaned.
The unresolved chord, the knife twisted,
The timbre was harsh to the ear,
Still the Master of Song never faltered,
As He taunted the anthem of fear.

But wait, still the baton, it changes,
Its tempo, its gait and its style,
And the orchestra sinks to a hush,
Like a waif that has walked her last mile.
And the tragedy deepens to longing,
That a rescuer might yet be found,
And He rises alive from the cobwebs,
To drive Death itself from the ground.

And the baton, it rises, unweary,
Each eye rises too as it flies,
But this time, it moves with a newness of life,
As it drives out the tears from the eyes.

For the Conqueror rose all-victorious,
And He beckoned the instruments play,
In one great eternal moment,
The song became joyous and gay.

The song rose exultant, majestic,
The mode changed from minor hue,
And the moments of anguish found meaning,
As the time to resolve all was due.
And the Lord of the Cue in His splendour,
Made the final decision in Time,
As the rapture of harmonious cadences closed,
With a flourish that said, "All is Mine."

24/11/2018
Written spontaneously without edit from inspiration by a fellow Christian, and former teaching colleague in Thailand.