The Poet And The Pearly Gates Poem by Brian Mayo

I stood before the Pearly Gates.
I hung my head in shame.
St. Peter peered into his book-
But did not see my name.

I asked him please to look again…
I hoped for a mistake.
I shuddered with the vision
of a painful, fiery lake.

He gently shook his head and smiled.
"I'm truly sad, " he said,
"But you are not allowed inside
And no tear can I shed.'

'Your name does not appear within
So this is where we part.
Eternity without you, friend-
Without your decent heart."

I tried to hold back bitter tears
But as I turned to go,
I asked St. Peter something, and
I hoped he wouldn't say no.

"Oh please, St. Pete, I beg of you,
You won't see me again…
Before I face my lonely fate-
Some paper and a pen? "

He said, "Ah yes, a poet!
We've very few of you…
I'll give you what you ask for,
Just to see what you will do."

I only had a minute left.
I wasted no more time.
I grabbed the tools held out to me.
And penned a simple rhyme.

- - Dear Jesus, I'm so sorry,
I can't be your new friend.
But please, look after my dear mom…
On her, you can depend.

I know she's in there somewhere, Lord
Among your golden skies.
She'll be the one with quiet grace
And kindness in her eyes.

I know you owe me not a thing.
I have no cards, you see.
But please, dear Jesus, all I ask…
Don't tell her where I'll be! - -

.................Part II..................

St. Peter took the poem from me-
It vanished from his hand!
I felt a warm and gentle breeze…
My feet seemed stuck in sand.

He looked at me in mild surprise…
A grin grew his face.
And suddenly a divine glow
Lit up the holy space.

A perfect sphere of blinding light
Appeared beside St. Pete
And from it stepped the very man
I wanted most to meet.

I kid you not, he stood right there.
His hair was shining gold!
There was no judgment in his smile-
No trace of scorn or scold.

His flowing robes were blinding white.
His aura brightly shone.
He turned his gentle face to me,
He said, "I got your poem."

I tried to look him in the eyes.
His face, it held no pain.
Then Jesus held out his good hands.
He said, "You're no Mark Twain...'

'But what you wrote did not displease…
In fact, I think it's swell.
The thing that most impressed me was
You thought not of yourself.'

'Your little poem has touched my heart
I know your mother well…
And yes, of course I'd spare her from
The knowledge of your Hell.'

'But, Brian, you've redeemed yourself!
Your simple poem was pure.
It truly showed your caring soul
Of this, I am quite sure.'

'I wish for you to come inside
And make yourself at home.
Tomorrow, all of Heaven will
Be hearing of your poem."