To lie awake in dark till dawn,
Then rise to breakfast, and the morn;
To scurry, with The Book in hand,
Attending Sunday church, as planned;
To make the way, via porch and gate,
And realise – my word – it’s late;
To be relieved, at last, to meet
The sidesman, with the service sheet.
To kneel before our God anew,
‘Mid scents of flower and polished pew,
‘Neath windows naming saints of old,
Before the altar draped in gold.
As we are bid to lift our hearts,
The short procession slowly starts,
And all concerns are left behind,
In comforts of the purest kind.
The reverend’s reassuring voice,
This quiet congregation’s choice;
No cymbal, glockenspiel or drum,
Disturb the equilibrium.
But organ pipe and steady choir
To lead the hymns, are its desire,
With prayers in words the Church once wrote,
Still pertinent, and not remote.
Epistle, Gospel and the Creed;
A Sermon – short – is all we need.
Confession: time to stop and think
Of sins committed, in a blink.
Within this space of hallowed vaults
We sit, repenting all our faults,
And, in humility, implore,
That we do better than before.
Though troubles knock this world about,
The rituals remove the doubt.
As new disciples we enact,
And ancient story turns to fact.
The Christ was present in that room!
We can’t ignore, or just assume –
We know it, and that sets us free:
Forgiven sinners, meant to be.
Emerging into day, we find
Awareness of a heightened kind:
A brighter sky, a lighter tred,
A wisdom for what’s best unsaid;
An understanding, what is more,
Of all that we are living for:
By flesh as bread and blood as wine,
To dwell in Him, our God, divine.