Court of the Patriarchs in Zion National Park — Image by kenne
Hymn at Zion’s Court
The cliffs rise like apostles,
robes cut by sun, wind, and rain.
Morning spills down their shoulders,
naming each in the hush of dawn—
Abraham, Isaac, Jacob—
leaning into eternity.
Below, the Virgin River hums,
riffing her own tune
as the sun anoints each peak
with a whisper that says,
“Don’t rush the holy, man—
it’s already here.”
And you can stand there
trying to find your rhythm
thinking maybe this is church,
and the sermon
is silance
with a backbeat.
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