Church

Let me never ask, when leaving church
"What did I get from the service today?"

Rather let me hear
As I rise from the benediction
The voice of the Lord saying,
"What did I get from their service for Me today?"

Text and Context

A tribute to John K. Lewis and Marcella Lydia Emerson Lewis.
by James W. Gustafson 1982

Two oaks upon a ridge top stood.
They grew not high, but knurled and wind-bent-
Wedded to the rocky spine beneath.
They put forth leaves to shade
The seedlings sprouting from their fruit.
As years wore on, their roots
Took hold in every niche,
To stand against the gales of seasons yet to come.

But now the leaves are dropping.
A limb is weak with age.
The heartwood holds, though not without a tremor.

A Carpenter will take these oaks
And fashion them with Master strokes
Into His living house above.
And carve upon their faces,
"Love."

So stands among us yet these stunted oaks,
Still smiling through the storms, still cracking jokes.
And who may be this lady and her "fella?"
Their names, of course, are Lewis: Jack, Marcella.

Henceforth a tribute to this noble pair,
Standing firm and proud through foul and fair,
Who always seem, no matter what, to hack it--
This one that he calls "Mother," she him "Jacket."

It Ain't Cricket

It Ain't Cricket
Here in the land of India
'Neath Himalyas' depthless snow
I listen to the cricketers
Upon the pitch below.

Blue is dueling Red now,
And many a fevered shout
Rises to the heavens
As batsmen show their clout.

The bowler's run - a mighty pitch
Bites dust near wickets three.
The dusky air doth tremble
As the batsman swings with glee.

High in the air he slices it,
An eliptic gliding arc.
A thousand eyes now track it
As it races from the park.

But what it is they cheer about
And why they're glad or glum
Is frankly quite beyond me
For I'm a baseball bum.

Deep in the Woods on Christmas Day

Whose house this is I think I know.
He’s in the debtors’ prison, though.
He spent his wad,
And now—O God!
Re-claimers come with vans in tow!

His little kids must think it queer
At Christmas with their Dad not near.
They give their stockings gentle shakes
To see if there’s been weird mistakes.
The telephone will ring, they say—
Calls from collectors on their way.

No one will see us stopping here
The saddest day of any year
When Santa packs up all those toys
Meant for Dad’s dear girl and boys.

Promissory notes we mean to keep,
So we can have a gentle sleep—
Not bury us with heaps of debt
And greet the New Year with regret.

I have my promises to keep
By writing checks before I sleep
To keep the creditors at bay
And live to see a better day.
And live to see a better day.

It Ain't Cricket

Here in the land of India
'Neath Himalyas' depthless snow
I listen to the cricketers
Upon the pitch below.

Blue is dueling Red now,
And many a fevered shout
Rises to the heavens
As batsmen show their clout.

The bowler's run - a mighty pitch
Bites dust near wickets three.
The dusky air doth tremble
As the batsman swings with glee.

High in the air he slices it,
An eliptic gliding arc.
A thousand eyes now track it
As it races from the park.

But what it is they cheer about
And why they're glad or glum
Is frankly quite beyond me
For I'm a baseball bum.

"Surgeon, Spare That Wife" by S. R. Nosfatsug

Surgeon, hold thy knife!
Thou shalt not cut my wife!
While I've an ounce of strength
I shall protect her life.

Long gashes would'st thou make
Upon her silken skin;
Such wounds she will not take
While I, her next of kin,

Can stand twixt her and thee
With the gleaming sharpened blade.
Sooner I'd yield my neck
To spare my youth's fair maid.

Sure, she's old and weak now
Compared to days of yore.
But I'll defend her beak now
From what you have in store:

To slice her and to dice her
As if she were but pork.
No! She's MY hasty pudding
Though not the kind from York.

So put thee down thy weapon!
I make to thee no bow.
For she's set her heart on heaven,
And I'll defend her now!