The Dance {a poem}

We watch in delight as the Father and Son and the Spirt each dance in turn. As the glorious dance goes on and on, He picks up the hand of the dirtiest one who won’t dance, who won’t bend, who steps out of turn, who once loved to play in the dung. He covers Himself with the dirt and the shame and hands His own splendor away. And when the sinner is clean and bears the gleam of the dawn, He picks up my hand and I then dance along. Delight, pure delight! And the music that plays, it plays on and on. And with each new step I dance to the song. The proud that are broken he teaches to bend. And the song of delight and glorious light go on without end, without end.