Pastor's Preparation
Generations Poetry | Two
He is careful not to wake his wife Treads downstairs under quiet lamplight Reaches across for the creased Word Worn as his crow feet. Yellowed by the oils of his skin Another sort of old anointment His rough fingers whisper along The thin, familiar pages. The watchman calls out living springs Book in his palm, spread open as wings Overflows from his trembling hands To fountain unending. Before the first bird throws wide its beak, Before the sun o’er horizon peeks Before even the coffee boils He surrenders, prostrate. Hushed, crying into the braided rug Each thought on behalf of the flock he loves Thy will be done, Thy name be known The plans of self laid down. Much later in leftmost pew he stands All in pursuit of Thine boughten beloved Among his dear friends, he sings a hymn Praising because of their joy. But though the sheep listen, how could they see? That the first witness of his heavenly plea Wasn’t the pulpit, his pride, or the dawn— But only the jealous late moon. It watched him rise ‘fore dawn alone, And longed for a shred of the grace man has known. Oh, how God loves His Bride, written on His hands! This is the well of his soul.