The Warden

The warden sat within his pew

With furrowed brow and ashen hue

His hands aclasp and thoughts on high

He uttered up his plaintive cry

“O Lord deliver us I pray

From all our vicar has to say.”

 

Preserve us too from holy prance,

Or otherwise liturgic dance,

The series two and series three

And even series yet to be,

Encounter groups and Fisher schemes

And all other fruitless dreams

 

Instead of blessings we implore

A Christ’ning service as before

With good king James and Morning Prayer,

Old hymns and Psalms and music fair,

For change for only changes sake

Is rather more than we can take.

 

But hearing no response from high,

He Rose departing with a sign

Then pausing at the west porch door,

A pocket knife he did withdraw.

And he did carve in letters clear,

“Abandon hope who entre here!”

 

But once away, beneath the sky,

The laughter heard and wondered why

One could not find, within the Church,

Despite ones prayers and painful search,

The God who clearly dwelt outside

Among the birds and countryside.

 

Garry B Spencer

Church Warden 1972-6

(Retired)