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.
