Old Isaac Jones he couldn't sing, not worth a tinker's dam; And yet he joined in ev'rything, and sang "Just As I Am" As loud as anybody there, as far as I could see, Poured forth his soul upon the air, but always off the key. Right after we had let-us-prayed and passed the plate around, Before the minister essayed theology profound, He'd say, "We'll join in singing hymn nine-hun-dred-ninety-two"; Then Elder Jones braced ev'ry limb, prepared to see it through. The preacher read a verse aloud, the organ played a bar; The choir arose serene and proud, as church choirs always are; It sang with care the opening note, or maybe three or four -- Then burst from out the elder's throat that celebrated roar. It shook the rafters, shook the pews, it shook the countryside; The elder longed to spread the news of glory far and wide. His heart was full of joy today, of joy he longed to shout, And singing was the only way he had to let it out. Courageously the choir withstood old Elder Jones' attack And tried to keep, the best it could, the tune upon the track. But, as the three sopranos glad gave forth their highest E, Then Jones let loose with all he had and countered with a B. A free-for-all, when that was done, was all there was to do; The choir sang one tune, elder one, the congregation two. I often wondered which the more was heard around the thrones -- The E of those sopranos or the B of Elder Jones. But I'm a little older now, as old as he was then, And know, or think I know, just how the Lord arranges men. He judges singing, judges what we are from day to day, By whether we're sincere or not in all we do and say. The elder sang -- he had to sing -- his soul was full of grace; And that's what counts in ev'rything, in church or any place. The elder's joy the heavens shook, and not the singers' art: The choir was singing from the book, the elder from the heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CAMPUS SONNET: TALK by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET MOUNTAIN FARM by MALCOLM COWLEY A WINTER'S NIGHT by ROBERT FROST A POEM FROM BOULDER RIDGE by JAMES GALVIN OLD MEN ON THE COURTHOUSE LAWN, MURRAY, KENTUCKY by JAMES GALVIN |