Sheila Stahl

 

Come to Jesus Meeting

 

"Amen" we prayed,

Three times we’ed seek.

All day on Sunday,

Once mid-week.

 

The deacon prince,

Would pass the plate,

Accepting pence,

Sin’s compensate.

 

The preacher words,

Were barely heard,

Dramatic verbs,

Redundant thirds.

 

She’d stare in space,

And watch the clock,

Time flew with haste,

Tick-tick tick-tock.

 

A dainty slip,

Under her dress,

A silky strip,

She would caress.

 

Six-year-old locks,

Hung by her ears,

She knew a crock,

A stony leer.

 

Scars could be found,

Two inches wide,

And wrapped around,

Her little thighs.

 

More did await,

Upon that belt,

That hung in wait,

The stinging welts.

 

His sins weren’t cleansed,

In pews or prayers,

But little girl bends,

His whipping tears.

 

The Prince of Darkness’,

Ritual Reich,

His best confess,

And sins would strike.

 

His manhood swelled,

A boastful prayer,

For power wailed,

Without a care.

 

Her fall to knees,

Pale flesh was poured,

Forgiveness, please,

Is there a Lord?

 

 

 

 

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