Dear Lord,
you got through to me on Sunday, healed.
Took away the petty stress, built up, revealed
Yourself, not in the great soft blanket of love and peace
The half tranquilliser, half fleece
Way you sometimes do,
But in that other way of knowing you,
That doesn’t always work as it’s meant to.
You came to church, and in the ancient place
Your Grace shone through.
The sunlight was more than warm beams on wormed beams,
The whitewash was more than a metaphor,
The hymns’ rhyme schemes
More than rhymed, internally, chimed, schemed it seemed
To reinforce the pressing themes:
Journeying, pilgrimage
And the need for valour, being brave,
Living, not merely avoiding the grave.
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