- MELODIOUS MONKS
(SESTINA)
In fond remembrance of a story told by my
mother many a night before I went to sleep.
In seventeen hundred and two, old monks dwelt
In humble pious retreat, shelter always offering
To travellers who roamed at night on the open road,
For Inn’s were few and far between in days of old,
Every night after vespers they sang hymns of praise,
Until tears of joy ran down each angelic wrinkled face.
Every night they sang, the love for their God on each face,
The hoarse, flat cracked notes arose to where God dwelt,
Though voices were croaked they were sweet with praise,
These humble men gave their all in voice, a total offering
To God, as they did when singing sweetly in days of old,
Still in their own way travelling along a heavenly road.
Living with just the bare necessities along life’s road
Yet willing to share their all with a smiling face,
One day to the monastery all crumbling and old
Came travellers where these gentle monks dwelt,
Needed lodging, could they stay for a small offering?
The visitors were welcome, the Lord they did praise.
That evening the travellers were invited to sing in praise
To God, the only payment needed for safety from the road
And food and shelter, praise to God in song the only offering.
The visitors all young and well dressed, handsome of face,
The travellers were paid singers and in great cities dwelt,
The notes rose in such sweetness just like days of old.
They remembered how sweet their notes before they were old,
Oh, how sweet were then those melodic songs of Godly praise,
Though earnest sweetness in each old heart still deeply dwelt,
Their voices had long since lost melodic tone along life’s road,
A sad truth until that moment they never did before face,
Was their cracked singing to their God a suitable offering?
They stopped singing to hear that sweet sounding offering,
Stopped was each earnest voice, for they sounded so old,
The paid singers sang, but there was no love on any face,
It just sounded as though they were singing God’s praise,
They sang like angels, these men travelling on the road,
But the song of the heart did not reach to where God dwelt.
Where was your nightly offering, where was your song of praise,
We missed our monks so old, heading along the righteous road,
The angel had a worried face, she came from where God dwelt.
M Ann Margetson May 16, 2002