Vivian I. Lord
An old man limps up the lane
Footsore, tired and sweaty with pain,
Stops, lays down his crutches
Sit down upon the church steps to wait in vain. Not a soul upon the sidewalks,
Not a sound of bell nor hymn,
Dimly wonders, what has happened.
He can't seem to comprehend, Spies a notice on the church door,
Hobblers closer, mutter "never heard the like afore".
"Him a takin his vacation,
Church has closed its very doors. Wonder if when I get to heaven,
And I totter up those golden stairs,
And I reach the pearly gates,
Will St. Peter be awaitin there? ...