zachary d street:

Sunday's Flock

I saw them file to their cushioned seats and stand
So unaware of the power of their patient Host.
Then, at the piano's soft command
They sat to take their weekly Sunday post,
Each corpse with eyes set on the words above.
They opened tired jaws to offer a song
With dying words of life and hope and love.
The stench of death screamed of something wrong,
So the one on stage, invited them to stand.
And stand they did, in lethargic unison,
With empty eyes ahead and rigid hands.
An empty flock, in a tired empty song.

And I thought the Good Shepherd must surely weep,
At the sight of such blind and stubborn sheep.

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