Èκκλησία, The Dance of Sunday

As far as saints go, I’m too slow.

As far as sinners? I don’t know.

Unafraid of “None shall pass”

or peering through the looking glass

and tending toward along the edges

I’ve been known to cut through hedges.

An alleyway, a street, a trail,

it matters not which sea I sail.

And I won’t say I have regret.

The past, as tense, ain’t perfect.

Yet . . .

alone I’ll go if I must choose,

but that’s a choice that is a ruse.

Alone is not an option, see.

He told us back in history:

It isn’t good to be alone;

that place is the forbidden zone.

He calls us to community;

He rings the bell, for you and me.

Because of One who paid the price,

this is no random throw of dice.

Nothing has been left to chance.

We’ve been invited to the dance:

the Dance of Sunday (all the time).

Oh! Here comes dawn . . .

I’ll end this rhyme.

Everyone is invited!