MISSION

Let's have a mission
Maybe the week after next
We can print leaflets in pastel colours
And insert a well known text

I know a speaker
I'm sure he'd draw a crowd
We can line up some mouth-watering testimonies
And soloists who aren't too loud

There are plenty of Christians
Who'd love to come along all week
And if anyone else decides to appear
I'm sure we can find a few more seats

Let's have a mission
It's been far too long since the last
There's nothing like a good heart warming sermon
To make the winter evenings pass

HARVEST

We ploughed the fields again tonight
Then scattered to our homes
The ladies donned their new delights
For the annual fashion show

The choir had made some signings
To swell their anthem praise
On loan from other churches
Or returned from bygone days

The church was overflowing
With long forgotten faces
And others who would just attend
On special church occasions

And uncles,aunts and nephews
The family dog as well
And new found mates of either sex
Were gracefully revealed

The rich fool lost again this year
You'd think he'd get the message
There's no one like that sitting here
His loss is our advantage

The mustard seed grows more and more
The vineyard still needs workers
And there we sit and see the Word
More suited to our neighbour

We ploughed the fields again tonight
And filled our brains with plenty
The offering plates were overflowed

But many hearts left empty

STICKY SWEET PAPER

I'd heard it once the prayer before
It nudged my concentrating
But now the fistle just in front
Was mildly irritating

It seemed the last attempt had failed
Through lack of careful planning
And now this new assault must be
Successful but demanding

An air of confidence appeared
Mid coughs and blowing noses
The volume rose as prayers were spoke
With silence in the pauses

'Till finally the job was done
"Amen" we all recited
But sweet and paper were firm friends
They would not be disunited

That final tug was all in vain
The job must start anew
The boiled sweet lay in tatters
Beneath the wooden pew

The moral of this story is
Be silent when you pray
For I know how our victim felt
It was me last Sabbath Day

EMPTY

An empty garden
Where I should have been
But my arrival delayed
By another man’s sin

And empty throne
Where a Son should have reigned
But events in the garden
Needed someone to blame

An empty manger
Where perfection was born
But a mother would ponder
The day she would mourn

And empty garden
Where the praying was done
But a show of affection
Meant darkness had come

An empty field
Where a seed could have grown
But the price that was paid
Was the cost of a Son

An empty cross
Where He knew separation
But three simple words
Turned my sin to salvation

An empty tomb
Where there should have been grieving
But the folded remains
Held the promise of leaving

An empty heart
Where the fire was so precious
But the words that we speak now
Lie buried in ashes

An empty soul
Where the walls are unguarded
But the story of Easter
Is always discarded

An empty sky
Where the throne was ascended
But the promised return
Means the story’s not ended

CHOIR

Robes cover a multitude of sins
But we know what they're hiding
And God reaches the parts that
Ordinary mortals have given up finding
And there they perch like hungry vultures
Waiting for their moment , to rise
And attack the hymn with gusto
Or their captive audience
With those prying eyes
I wonder how they qualified to take
Such elevated status
A singing test , ancestral rites
Or gate crashed without invitation
Yet there they stand and not all blessed
With vocal chords of gold
But duty to the cause remains
For the face behind the robe

FUNERAL

A real good friend was buried today
Near the church at the top of the hill
And the tears of his closest family
Mingled with those whom he knew well
The minister offered his sympathy
Speaking well of the recent deceased
Its not always so easy to know what to say
For the mourners know what they believe
So strange when you die
Everybody's your friend
Plans are altered to see your last day
But the talk is of farming or business or sport
As the cortege rolls slowly away
And black is the colour and sad are the tunes
And deep are the voices who sing
For some , the beginning
For others , the end
Who are happy with three score and ten

CHILDREN'S CHURCH

Where do they go every Sunday
Just after the choir sing
And the organist plays on half-expectedly
Keeping one eye on the congregation
We tell them not to talk to strangers
But happily let them go with someone
They hardly ever see.
He looks a bit old for Children's Church
That man with the red complexion
Dragging a small dissenter along the aisle
Embarrassed by his partner's lack of attention.
He won't return - he'll sit it out
Having weighed up the lesser of two evils
Missing the sermon because duty calls
And the wife needs a well earned break.
I know where I'd like to go next Sunday
If I can latch on to a child
For just a few minutes
I'm as young as I feel but too old
To join the mass exodus on my own