The disciple plays his drums alone,
While He deliberates in a pose of rest
To bless His child with a feel of time
And rays of life from a palette's shine
When his eyes glance the Lord
Who enlivens the damaru in every era,
The shower of love is timely echoed
As ephemeral joys his fingers show
They are His sounds, expressed His way
But he fancies the rhythm to be his own
Just as he interprets the individual soul
Which belongs to Him in every tone
Once the last lesson is learned
To credit the Composer Who listens within,
The percussionist concludes his solo cadence
And creates an ensemble, now his own
