On Sundays, There Was Church Poem by Thomas Noel Smith

On Sundays, there was church
The old brick building standing alone
On the grassy lot
Steeple pointing to the sky
People coming, responding
To the bells ringing
People sitting next to each other
In hard wooden pews
Singing,
Listening to impassioned words
Sprayed out over their heads,
Rising upward
To the ceiling of the church

The plate passes and eager hands
Give money willingly
To avoid the pains of hell

The final hymn
People rise with quiet impatience
Waiting to leave their captive sanctuary
Leaving to go
Their separate ways
Not to see or speak to each other again
Until next Sunday

Silent faith
Finding its home
In each individual heart, each soul

Practiced faith
Finding its home
Within the sacred walls
Of the church

And a soul wings its way home
Prayers and words
Spoken in memory
A good man, a godly man
It’s a pity
No one tried to know him.