A Poem Inspired by Isaiah 59
Chapter 50
What does it sound like when woodwind weeps and Scripture sings? Let us listen to this symphony of prayer, lament, and hope. Let us hear what flows from the meeting of sacred word and sacred sound. A cry for deliverance. A song of redemption. A whisper of eternal grace.
This ancient cry of a heart pursued, and place it beside the duduk, the wooden flute whose every note carries the weight of exile and hope. Now, put them together—not simply side by side, but in a blender of sound, soul, and poetry. Stir their raw emotions, their aching vibrations, their hope for deliverance, and listen to what emerges.
“Behold, the LORD’s hand is not shortened,
That it cannot save,
Nor His ear dull,
That it cannot hear.”
So the prophet cried to the fading winds,
To hearts weighed with dust,
To souls longing for a horizon
Where hope might rise like an untouched dawn.
The melody begins—low, mournful, ancient.
A whisper carried by time’s trembling breath,
A voice shaped by exiled stones, it sways like the wandering
Reaching, stumbling, yearning for light
In a world where shadows multiply.
Oh, Israel, your walls are broken.
The temple sleeps beneath its ruin,
And the streets echo not with songs of joy
But with the cries of a nation untethered.
Injustice stalks the alleys,
Truth has stumbled in the marketplace,
And the hand of peace is struck aside.
Where is the light? Where is the voice?
The stars are dim; the heavens silent.
Yet the melody rises,
Like a thread of hope climbing the dark,
A promise trembling on the edge of night.
The sound swells—now fierce, now tender,
A story both mournful and defiant.
It speaks of a Redeemer,
Of hands not shortened,
Of arms strong enough to pull the lost
From their endless drowning.
For though sin has built a canyon,
Love will build a bridge.
I hear the cries of confession:
“Justice is far from us,
And righteousness does not overtake us.
We hope for light, but behold, darkness;
For brightness, but we walk in gloom.”
And the melody bends beneath their weight,
Like a branch heavy with winter’s ice,
Like hearts heavy with the knowing
That they are their own undoing.
But then it rises, slowly, surely,
like the breaking of dawn.
A new voice enters, rich and golden,
The “arm of the LORD,” the Savior promised.
He steps into the ruins,
Clothed in righteousness,
With a zeal, no storm can quench.
“And a Redeemer will come to Zion,
To those in Jacob who turn from transgression.”
And the song becomes a hymn—
A hymn for the broken,
For the blinded who grope for walls,
For the weary who walk in endless twilight.
Oh, melody of grace,
Sing now of justice and mercy’s embrace.
For on the cross, they kissed,
And in the tomb they wept,
And in the dawn they rose
Hope incarnate, alive forevermore.
The final notes are not a lament
But a whisper of eternal promise.
Hope has come, and hope will come again.
For though we live in the “not yet,”
The “already” sings louder.
And we wait, not in silence,
But in a symphony of trust,
Carried by the winds of a world remade.
Let the Duduk weep its final tear
Not for despair, but for joy
Rising on the wings of eternity.
Blessing you with the hope of the 2nd advent
Philemon