Early on a summer morning
Patchy sleep has left me yawning

I heave ajar my old church door
And heave my frame across the floor

The church is quiet, it’s time to pray
Connecting time to time’s new day

My creaking joints crunch down to kneel
And soon my heart begins to feel

The warmth of God’s protecting love
Around my soul like perfect glove

A stillness in His presence
Connected to life’s essence

But as I soar on holy heights
I plummet down with holy frights

A man is standing next to me
(He must be nearly…seventy?)

His clothes are ripped, his beard is long
His body sings a pungent song

There’s something moving in his hair
And something moving in his stare

This wasn’t planned, I’m here to pray
I really wish he’d go away

‘We’re closed’, I say, ‘come back at ten’
He doesn’t move; I say again

My Godly high’s now sinking fast
My prayer-filled sail droops on the mast

The Spirit’s tide is ebbing out
‘Leave me alone!’, I want to shout

And then…my curate joins the fray
And says the things I’d like to say

He ambles in with jaunty cheer
And says ‘hello. You’re welcome here.’

The man, he nods, and ghosts a smile
Then motions to the western aisle

Behind some bobs, behind some bits
A dusty old piano sits

It’s clear that he just wants a go
I do not have the heart for ‘No!’

He looks at me, I nod ‘okay’
He lifts the lid and starts to play

My ears stand crouched for aural pain
Dissonant chaos in my brain

When suddenly I note the notes
That sail my way in heavenly boats

The sound’s profound, a minor key
He’s playing Bach; I’m all at sea

My heart is stirring, beats are raised
My soul’s responding: God be praised

The music takes me ever higher
’til worship is my sole desire

And then as odd as it began
The music stops; out walks the man

The curate jaunts his way out too
He says he has some jobs to do

The church falls silent, it’s just me
‘Confused of Holy Trinity’

Back on my knees, back to my prayer
I’m asking God: what happened there?

With Abba love he gently chides
The pious blindness of my pride

Why, dear son, did you resent him?
When, dear son, ‘twas I who sent him.