A Poem About the Sacrament
There was envy in the glances that a lovely woman cast,
At the hairdo of a neighbor while the Sacrament was passed.
And a teenaged girl I noticed, though a timid lass & shy,
Watched a youthful priest intently through the corner of her eye;
As he sat behind the table where the water trays were spread.
She was not remembering Jesus nor the prayer the priest had said.
There was nothing reverential in the things the cub scout drew,
on the pages of the hymn book till the Sacrament was through.
Not a thought of Jesus' passion entered careless elders' minds,
As they whispered to each other & the girls they sat behind.
And the high priest's brow was furrowed as he stole a secret glance,
At his checkbook's dismal story of his failures in finance.
There were hundreds in the chapel but the worshippers were few,
And I couldn't help but wonder what the Lord Himself would do.
I couldn't help but wonder what the Lord Himself would say,
Had he walked into a meeting where His saints behaved that way.
Would His loving eyes be saddened, would His countenance be grim;
While He there observed & listened to a meeting meant for Him?