Guest Preacher

{Based on a childhood memory of an over-zealous guest preacher in an Aberdonian chapel, and further inspired by George Herbert’s poem ‘The Collar’. }

‘Angry Debate’, a clipart image from Pixabay.com

He strikes the board.
Preacher’s passion’s way.
Heed his words, that God does say.
Wrinkled hands must dig in deep,
unearth the worms from burrows,
draw out sins, old, and wring them dry,
hang them out in God’s good sky.

He strikes the board,
turns up the heat;
hand hot-singed and splintered.
Old lady squirms, her cheeks gone red
from dugout words with lovers,
from kisses, hot, and fumbles, felt
of all that’s good, this man does melt.

He strikes the board.
Face full with rage,
His puffed-out cheeks exploding.
Old lady’s doomed; she’ll burn in hell;
from blushes, pink, and sins she’ll tell,
of lust gone wild, and fun once had
of all that’s fine, this man does smelt.

He strikes the board,
shakes fist up high,
His loyal flock surrenders.
Old lady faints, her pulse slowed down,
her heart too full to heed him,
of kisses, hot, and fumbles, felt
of all she’s loved, this man does pelt.

He strikes the board.
Preacher’s on his way.
Heed his words, that Death does say.
Angered hands, thump coffin’s lid,
a pulse not yet, quite broken.
Before the end, he hears God’s cry,
sees full his wrong, ‘fore God on high.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, October 2018

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