By: Quina Parchment

“Sing it to me again!”

Daughter begged of her Abba,

“that song you sing

with loud shouts of glee

a melody overflowing

with your love for me,

I must hear it again!

while you hold me close to your chest

where I can see

near the sides of your eyes gleaming

those creases revealing

a permanent smile

while

I’m wrapped in garments

you gave me, saying,

‘Beloved,

these are the garbs

I give to my kids

—un-stainable

spotless

clean

perfectly pleasing—

I see you like this.

My Firstborn,

he labored to make these

with his own hands.

Come close, child,

I’ll tell you how it happened

just as I planned…’

And you sing to me

sing to me

with joy burst into dance

that glorious story

Oh, it never gets old!

Each time you retell it

I get a new glimpse,

and I know I don’t know

the depth of its riches,

but that’s what excites me

so tell me it again

until my heart is fully convinced

this isn’t fiction, but real

and really for me

to take part in

partake in its

sustaining flavor

specifically seasoned for a satiated soul

like mine

I have time, I have time!

I will wait all the day

just to hear you sing it over me

Sing it again, Daddy!”

So Abba cleared his throat

and exulted to repeat

singing the story of the glorious,

loving Warrior-King,

her Daddy.