First Methodist Church, Kirbyville

First Methodist, Kirbyville

Not very old, these stones; still, old enough

To witness as a careful heap the faith

Of men who saw the sun go down in France

As German shells sought out the living dead

Along ancient rivers that Charlemagne knew;

Of those who marked high noon by the sawmill,

Whose whistle shrilled far out into the fields;

The careless youths of a happier time

Whispering in Sunday school the dusty plot

Of yesterday’s Roy Rogers matinee;

The Women’s Society of Christian Service:

Gloves, purses, hats, dresses in flowered prints,

Those Vestal matrons in charge of What’s Right,

Setting men, boys, and coffee cups in order,

And the occasional minister, too.

The feasts and seasons pass, and so do we,

Remembered briefly in old photographs

On the wall of the Beeler Bible Class,

And the seasons turn ‘round again, and life

Renews, each Easter and Christmas,

The ordained rhythm of the universe

Until unknowing time itself is unknown.

The stones of our little parish age well,

Almost golden now, in the morning sun,

Following the seasons along with us;

The stones remember all, and if required,

As Jesus said, will sing the Truth aloud:

These, too, are the stones of Jerusalem.