Raymond A. Foss Poems

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Her four-year old body figgeted,
struggled to sit still in the pew
to quiet her spirit
where the sermon was long
the hour was late
she was tired, antsy

“Ssh, Pastor Peter is praying”
I whispered, covering her mouth
drawing her toward me
I was right, he was praying;
but not with head bowed
nor were we in the congregation
No he was praying the story
of Christ’s table
of the first breaking of bread
that fateful Passover meal
when a body was broken
offered in sacrifice
spilt blood and rent body
a familiar story
with deeper meaning
purer truth
in his hushed,
penitent tone,
His understanding of the magnitude
the importance of the gift.

July 24, 2006 8:36

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