A Victorian Portrait
You stood behind your Bible
And thundered lie on lie,
And your roaring shook your beard
And the brow above your eye.
There was squalor all around you
And disaster far ahead,
And you roared the fall of Adam
To the dying and the dead.
You built your slums, and fastened
Your hand upon your heart
And warned the drab illiterate
Against all useless art.
And you died upon the Sabbath
In bitterness and gloom,
And your lies were all repeated
Above your gaudy tomb.
I got an e-mail from Bernie, who wondered if I could find this poem (at least, I hope it was this one you meant, Bernie...) -and I couldn't, but I know someone who can (thank you, John!). It reminded me a bit of Alabaster Thomas , at least in the gaudy tomb sense.
We had a neighbour who was just like that. My dad said it was no wonder he was nearly a hundred when he died - God didn't want him either.
ReplyDeleteI have dwelt mostly among the ungodly. Though an old school friend had a very Chapel family. He took an overdose once and came round to find them kneeling praying. Which seemed a less helpful thing to do than call an ambulance. Unless it was the prayer that saved him of course... it hadn't occurred to me to think of that option till just then.
ReplyDeletePrayer is mightier that the sword - or at least a bottle full of tablets.
ReplyDelete