A Southern Gospel... Poem by Eric Cockrell

he carefully pried at the screen
with his pocketknife... laying low
against the building, almost dissolving
in the shadows.
the probing lights of cars passing saw
nothing, no sign of life.
slowly, without sound, he removed the
screen.... pushing the window up just
enough, he pulled himself up and through
the window like a snake.
it was some kind of office at the back of
the church. he waited a minute for his
eyes to adjust. his body hurt, even his
soul hurt! every breath cut like a knife.
making his way to the door, he slipped
out into the hall. the silence was deafening.
on down the hall to the sanctuary... opening
the double doors, he made his way into the tomb!


waves of stillness.... and the smells...
redemption, morality, and sin... delicious,
tortured sin...
he slipped onto a bare wooden pew, and
the memories flooded back....
angels, demons, right and wrong defined
on chalkboards by hands that couldnt have
been human!
scriptures beaten against the mind... pictures
of a life he'd never quite found!
he took a deep breath, and winced... thought
of the hymns. peace everafter, always some
distant shore. yet they're often been a strange
sense of healing there.
he touched the offering plates, and shook his head.
the nickels and dimes of salvation, the cost of the
soul.
standing up, he made his way to the altar... and
fell in a heap to the floor...
agonizing, he looked up to see moonlight pouring
through the stained glass window... lighting the
face of Jesus, hanging on the cross...
the cold floor seemed to clutch at his heart...
his mind opened, and the waves rolled in.