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Remembering a Song Often Sung on Sunday Night

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O God, our help in ages past

Our hope for years to come

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It’s Sunday night

And the chapel service is ending

We’ll all be leaving soon

To ponder Monday morning

Then what should be done tonight

That might be done

And what will be ignored because

The sabbath time

Is measured, still

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Our shelter from the story blast

And our eternal home

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Sometimes it’s too dark

And quiet

The winter will be worse

Not to be bored or frightened

We don’t fear wolves

Or wolverines so much, anymore

Except the allegories

We encounter Monday morning

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Time like an ever-rolling stream

Bears all its sons away

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Daughters are as sons

All are borne by mortal time

Away from what we know

Into a mystery

That we believe has

A final solution

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They fly forgotten as a dream

Dies at the opening day

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The scripted dream

Cannot be retained

Maybe it’s a contract

Between imagination

And the ages

Some keep a journal

About retaining something

The week begins,

Regardless

With the night, the dawn

And then the waking hours

Everything we know

Pushing away

What subconscious rules there are

When sleeping

Plus working out in

One brief act after another

Who the playwright is

Who will not let us

Keep our lines

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Amen

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C L Couch

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Photo by Deleece Cook on Unsplash

Cambeltown, Australia

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