Poem for the Day
It was late in the day when I arrived
So I just slipped
Into a back pew. Memories derived
From having to sit quiet and tight-lipped
Amongst the matrons of my childhood years,
Who smelled of mints and wore large moth-balled hats,
And watch-chained men who scowled at wriggling boys
Who broke their peace with sniggering and sneers,
Who pointed rudely asking, “What is that?”
“Is this the place God lives? Is He annoyed?”
Nothing has changed, I almost said out loud,
All still the same.
Sunday best and litany much too proud,
Their self-imposed repentance in God’s name.
These celebrations at the end of Lent,
With thirty silver pieces wrapped in eggs,
Proclaim the Lamb of God, a market loss,
A merchandised theatrical event.
But no one watching for forgiveness begs,
Though guilty as the soldiers round the cross
Who, with their simple game of cards and dice,
Play for a coat,
Bit players in the schemes of men and mice,
Now called of God, but called to mock and gloat.
And as the service drew toward its end,
In shades of Easter, trimmed in mauve and gold,
I almost missed it, through the organ’s din,
That still today he stands without a friend,
Denied, betrayed; and then the noon bell tolled
Its hugely false and empty Judas ring.
Easter Sunday
Bill Adair
