Romanist to Anglican
Said, “My parti-coloured man
Should your vague collective mind
On this question of mankind
Come to see the saving grace
Of One Church in time and space,
Do not hesitate to call
At the church of Peter-Paul.
There on weekday afternoons
Having lunched on ham and prunes
I prepare my great defence
Of the Faith and Irish sense.
Briefly, then, it goes like this:
Dogma equals that which is,
All the Church says is not so
We the faithful need not know;
Nothing since is quite as fine as
Half a page of tough Aquinas.”
Anglican to Romanist
Said, “You’ve missed what is the gist
Of our vaunted middle way.
Through the year and twice a day
Voices in a loose chorale
Rise in praises to the All –
Better this polyphony
Than directives from a See.
Should you wish to come along
To the church of sweet St John
You will find me taking lunch
Scribbling notes about my hunch
That Our Lord – part scientist,
Activist and socialist,
Was at root in all His ways
Modern as a music craze,
If you like, a sort of Lennon
Saving us from sin and Mammon.”
Somewhere an exploding star,
Very hot and very far,
Like a million filaments
Fused the heavy elements;
Flung them into farther space
Where the quarks in endless chase
Flee across a universe
Wary of philosophers.
From the heavy molecules
As a solar system cools
Fashioned were the properties
Of a planet and its seas.
Finally were creatures born
Blinking dumbly at the morn,
Iron in their sturdy blood
Ushering the endless flood;
They, to purify their feasts,
Stupidly invented priests.
© Feb 1981
