This Sunday Morning
This Sunday Morning
The plague has shut our church doors this morning,
Even the lovely lawn is bare of chairs.
If you like, you can turn to the internet, though
It’s not the same as warm handshakes, hugs or building fair,
But lo, here arching trees form a cathedral,
As I think of you in prayer,
The birds are singing in a songbird choir,
And squirrels ushering, gathering here and there.
There are drifting clouds of alabaster white angels,
And scriptures’ fluttering pages,
Soft breezes carry the whispers of worshiping parishioners,
With fervent petitions for those who are missing,
And the Devil weeps! – he has not won.
For all this is God’s unending Love!
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