I often watch the caravans, Along the black-top trails, Weaving in and out of lines, With caution signs along the rails.
With Vesper hymns resounding, And Vesper prayers in mind, I wonder where they're going, And why I've never been so inclined.
My mind is held to treasures, And Sunday morning gifts, With Liturgy surroundings, And Gospel-measured lifts.
My mouth holds thirst of supper, In quantities of sharing, Lessening my hunger, Toward feasts of minor caring.
My ears hear not of amusement, My eyes see not temptation, My heart responds to a Savior, And I'm there by invitation.
Copyright (c) 2010 by George Warholak. All rights reserved.