Southern Baptist
The white church lifts its fragile hands
Against the burning sky,
And hymns drift out like whispered prayers
Too tender not to die.
The pine trees lean to hear the words
Of grace and quiet fear,
While summer presses close with heat
And judgment drawing near.
A woman bows her careful head,
Her sorrow folded tight,
And hopes that God will read her soul
More gently than the light.
The preacher’s voice, a trembling flame,
Declares both love and loss—
A mercy wide as southern fields,
A shadow shaped like cross.
And somewhere in the gathered hearts
Where faith and longing blend,
A question blooms no hymn can still,
No certainty defend.
For even in the softest psalm,
Where hallelujahs rise,
There lingers doubt as quiet as
The floating dust in open eyes.
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