Here, in the sepulchred silence of the dying day,
A hundred years of passing saints have trod;
Some walking proud, some falling on their knees,
But all of them to spend some time with God.
Here, amidst the glory of pitch-pine and lofty height,
They worshipped in the morning and the night.
Where, Sunday by Sunday,
The people prayed,
And the organ played;
Where hymns were sung in unison,
Supported by the choir in their stalls ―
But that’s not all.
Out on the Bowling Green
Where once at Summer Fete
The woods were seen,
It’s now a JCB that tears the soil.
Roses, daffodils, forget-me-not,
Have all fallen to the metal scoop
And lie discarded in a dying heap.
Yet I recall, and not so long ago,
The times I stood in crow-black gown,
And looking down
Upon those worshippers who congregated there,
In pew after pew, where saints have sat and sin has trod,
I shared the Word of God.
© 2013 Colin Gordon-Farleigh
No comments:
Post a Comment