UNORTHODOX by LEXIE DEAN ROBERTSON

I DID not want to go to church that Easter morning,
For the little house was shabby,
And the pews were bare.
Somehow I thought the faded carpets
And the mottoes hung askew
Would rasp the tender edges of my soul,
I did so care
For beauty on that one glad day.
And somehow, too,
I often feel that God
Can best be worshipped out of doors
In springtime,
Where the little green things
Push their baby leaves up through the sod,
Or in the dim cathedral gloom
Of some quiet wood,
Or by the sea.
But since my life is bound by narrow lines
That draw me sometimes where I do not wish to be,
I went to church.
The minister was earnest,
But his voice was weak,
And his clothes lacked pressing, sadly.
I did not hear him speak,
For I was dreaming of vast arches,
Candlelit,
And vested choirs.
The people in their tawdry finery
Did not disturb me,
Not even when they smelled of heavy cologne,
And babies cried,
And silk frocks rustled down the aisle
Importantly,
Under hats
With purple roses nodding on bent wires.
And then ...
Across a score of heads still bowed in prayer,
I met your eyes,
And there
Within my heart, anew, was born
The miracle and glory
Of the Resurrection Morn.

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