A dark Sunday morning,
The scent of fresh cinnamon rolls
Makes it’s way through the house
As all the kids get ready
To visit the ole’ wooden church.

On our knees, upon the old splintered wood
Praying to the Lord, of our sins
Sounds the faint noise of a tornado siren.
For that the ole’ southern church
Didn’t have much cover,
Bare as a tree in the heart of winter.
Huddled around the alter
As a community of God
Tightly linking loose arms,
Sweat dripping down my neck
As reality begins to set in.

Hearing the gentle thundering sound of
Trees crashing down, babies crying and annihilation
As the ole’ wooden church begins to splinter
With the cruel howling winds picking up.

As the old man of thirty-four
In his snow white alb
Who runs this town,
Known as priest McMichael’s
Gently gaits outside in a fearful hell
As he breaks out into tears
Collapsing down to his knees.

I put on my bifocals
To let me know it is real.
Shutting my eyes seeing the ordeal.
Glowering in sorrow,
Seeing the whole town is gutted.
With branches tightly gripping loose telephone wires
As houses are descended
Down to their core.
While fire hydrants spew with life
Almost as in a remembrance
For those who have vanished.

As we step outside and stare around,
We see how gracious we have become.
With the dark hell-like clouds above,
One cloud shines above them all
With a T shaped puff orbiting above
Lets us know, how merciful we’ve become.

For that day we did not break,
Not the kids, not the adults.
Not even the ole’ wooden church for goodness sake.