By S. C. Frost
(Dedicated to a man who went fishing on Lake Winona on Sundays)
The wondrous sky is the dome of my Church,
It’s floor is the beautiful lake.
The pulpit, a giant rock that took
Eternity to make.
The carpet, a mat of lilies
That nature made to please,
Solomon, in all his glory
Was not arrayed like these.
I need no preacher to talk to me
Of miracles; Job and John
For Nature calls to worship here
And miracles yet go on,
A miracle is the blazing Sun,
A miracle I am here,
Miracles, that time proceeds
And distance, far and near,
Always the great Creative Power
Enforces these facts with might,
“The way of the transgressor is hard,”
But “Goodness and truth are right.”
I cannot doubt the wisdom and power
That permeates all things,
That gives the sunshine and the shower
And joy to the bird that sings
The morning anthem, just for me
And its mate upon the nest,
But the darkening walls of Sacred Halls
Are not what I like best.
All nature sings, then the lowering clouds
Thunder out the organ bass,
And I wonder if some sphere to come
Is such a beautiful place.
The gorgeous rainbow greeting the law
That shapes its graceful bend,
Points from the rocky hill, of life?
To sunshine at the end.
Here I rejoice that there has come
Such merciful good to me,
And thankful for this ideal day
A gift from Nature, free,
I cannot help but wish for more
That others yet may see
The splendor of this, Nature’s Church,
And worship here with me.
Sent in by L. B.