TITLE: Saint Peter's Church
By DANIEL MBAJIORGU
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SAINT PETERíS CHURCH
In shining day Saint Peter's Church
Was beautiful to spy,
An orange cross upon her dome
Did pierce the azure sky.
Atop a mount stood there the church
Its walls a flaming gold,
Its windows tall were crimson red
Its architecture old.
Now warm July, the Northern wind
By mount and vale it flew,
Eccentric, wild, untamed and fierce
Yet leisurely it blew.
A narrow road crept up the mount
Decked with autumnal trees,
Of scarlet-yellow dangling leaves
Each one the next did kiss.
The sun was orange in the West
So picturesque to see,
And tepid glowed the fiery ball
Above the grassy lea.
Two shaded doves beneath it flew
That winged up East to rest,
Until at last they reached the cross
Where hung their cushioned nest.
An old sexton had tolled the bell
And left the doors ajar,
The brass gates of Saint Peter's church
For dwellers near and far.
Vanity Town in Easteindame
Professed lip piety,
It teemed with merchants, reeked of ale
As busy as a bee.
From sun to sun this little town
Moves restless like an ant,
Her common folks were poor for tax
Her nobles elegant.
The time for prayers having come
Two men walked in on foot,
The one was short, the other bald,
Both wore a talking boot.
The brown short man did stand aloof
His robes portrayed him Jew,
He much bemoaned his sinfulness
His words were true and few.
This little man a con merchant
Who cheated friends and kin,
With fervency humbly implored
Godís mercy for his sin.
Exceeding peace now filled his heart
A smile lit on his face,
Though restitution heíll still make
Heaven did him embrace.
The balding man began to pray
Exalting self and pelf,
No peace was found within his soul
Who prayed much to himself.
And standing on his righteousness
Acknowledged not his sin,
But spying upon his neighbour
Accused and despised him.
A comely man, stolid and tall
He held a Bible blue,
A reddish-yellow drape he wore
His cape the selfsame hue.
His creed was long much like his drape
He looked a Pharisee,
And though he fasted twice a week
A hypocrite was he.
The sun was down, the stars were up
Both rising up did go,
The lights that lit the alter round
Like tiny stars did glow.
The shorter man left justified
With him the Lord was glad,
For while for mercy he did cry
A contrite heart he had.
And down the road from where he was
The church in Easteindame,
Shone bright and fair in perfect view
And coloured like a flame.
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