My Church Is Dead:

A Pastor's Dirge

By Bobby Gawthrop

5 families true, salt of the earth,
when Sunrise congregation birthed,
yet all was not as all did seem,
sometimes I think it but a dream.

More families came, more families went,
yet one by one they too were spent,
submission to God's Word and way,
too much to take their lives did say.

Our toes turned black, then to blue,
one by one they proved untrue,
throbbing higher, pain did rise,
ankle to calf, up to thighs.

No pilled cure, this sin abate.
Diagnosis? Amputate!
Mourning over members lost,
we rolled, we strolled, our wheelchair grind,
yet stumps were all our eyes did find.

Our eyes were next to bleed with pain,
our vision blurred as hope did wane,
groping in the dark as blind,
a method or a way to find.

Diseased, eroding,
cancerous boding,
tumors spreading,
death bell tolling.

Stooled fluid red, anurismed head,
"life support" is all they said.
For months we breathed, thru tube & hose,
they serpentined our throat & nose.

Prostrate, void, something lost in ghastly night,
our will to live, our will to fight,
lost members impervious to our plight.

Visitations far and few,
our guests replulsed by spectered hue,
all were gone but faithful few.

Cycled thru, life's stages run,
Sunrise congregation done.

And so it was,
with Pastor's heart, with one last hug,
with shaken hand, in trembled sway,
I pulled the plug and died that day.