The Baptists

Tiptoe little Christians along the aisle. It is silent tonight. Memoried hymnals holding pages with cards unsigned. Red velvet cushion, worn now, creased and scarred awaiting Sunday’s best. Shut ins and the sick still holding close, Brother Mason taking us home. The final word, holding for Amen. Even this seemed a sin. Girls, boys, each knowing better but feeling wronged. Bowed heads giving way to a rising light, children gone. All in flight, racing the wind. An echo heard on hallowed halls. A turn now through opened walls, the race, it has begun. All out and fast, feeling luck. Running long, unknowing, an opened door. Slipping sides to cheat the threat only to face a maiden’s force stepping through and holding tight the sharpened blade. A halting blow, I step back to gather myself and feel the sword. Piercing, holding fast, a thin pain. Run, run hard to escape the light. Young instinct finding truth, finding cover. Giving over to a secret glance. Not once, twice, but three and knowing now the injured child. Torn skin, tender, beckons the wise. A Maternal pull, going home. It is her touch, soft and secure. Tell me child, where is the pain? We must hurry now.