Parson Clark
Unto thee, O my Strength, will I sing praises, for God is my high tower, the God of my mercy.
[Then the people fall silent and do not move. But the great words that they have spoken together have very deeply stirred this single girl who has stood apart and listened. With the last word of the Psalm, she seems of a sudden to grow taller. A smile like light itself spreads over her face. Light seems to grow out of her. She lifts her two arms in a wild abandonment to exaltation and cries out.]
The Girl
Ah!
[The Chronicler looks up in amazement at this sudden shout.
The girl takes a few tense steps down toward him and the light about her grows ever in whiteness.]
The Girl
Write more, write more, you Chronicler!
Write how the roots
Stir in the ground!
Write how the sap
Stirs in the trees!
Write how the thaw
Gives breath of life!
And write how God
Peers through the firmament
Upon the continents; for this day is glory!
The Chronicler