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+ 2ND POEMS: The Old Church Clerk
The Lord has blessed these many years, and I am growing old.
The twilight calls my spirit, as these memories unfold.
Leaving behind all worldly things, I say my finest work
was in the job that I have cherished long: our church's clerk.
Here, in this little building that has stood a century,
I kept the records of our fellowship for all to see.
Our heritage is precious. Over by that one side door,
Gramps Davis told us how he lived through Shiloh, in the War.
Each harvest time, our Sunday School put on a jubilee---
fried chicken and the fixin's underneath that yonder tree.
And Brother Robertson was always first to taste the fudge:
he sure could eat in those days, when he was a Federal Judge.
In all those files and ledgers, I wrote down each date and name.
But that is just chronology, and time is just a frame
for life that starts nine months before the baby takes first breath,
and ends in autumn sunset as an old man faces death.
Somewhere between the warm, soft blanket, and the cold, dark grave,
believers come to Jesus Christ, and find Him glad to save.
Some say this present world of ours is growing more complex:
such complications---schoolhouse murders, drugs, and loveless sex.
Some say that life is meaningless, evolved from random chance;
that God's creative work is really lucky circumstance.
Some say the Gospel is just wishful thinking, thin as mists,
more fit for hicks and barefoot girls than highbrow humanists.
AND YES!, among those hicks and barefoot girls, the faith is well.
The church stands firm, though all the sinful world slides into Hell.
Belief is more than wishful thinking, sitting in some pew.
We have been born again in Jesus, whether we be few
or many, and that means we hold on to God's precious Word,
in which enjoyment of Salvation is, in Christ, assured!
Our fellowship in Christ lasts always, whether here or there,
or (for that final generation) raptured through the air.
Starward
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[jlc]
I enjoyed your poem. It took me to a place where I could visualize the clerk recording memories for himself instead of the church, as he had seen more than anyone over the years.
Wonderful! Wonderful words! I love this poem. I'm surprised I haven't found your work before this. I'm sorry this is so brief, but I go now to read more as you have "flung a cravin' on me" as some say in my Southern vernacular.
Jessica
Although eighteen years late,
Although eighteen years late, for which I sincerely apologize with tremendous embarrassment, I thank you for the very kind comment on this, one of my earliest poems, and one of which I am particularly fond, having served for almost fourteen years as church clerk. Again, thank you for the comment. My delay in acknowledging it reflects my own incompetence, but does not in any way reflect upon the kindness of your words.
Starward