Sunday clothes, white blouse, woolen skirt, Mary Jane shoes,
honeyed hair hanging down, around your neck a silken bow.
You wait to walk with me to church, as morning chill blows,
the seeds of paradise in the afternoon we carefully sow.
Parents are following later, we walk alone the ruttend lane,
carefully to keep our shoes out of the water and the mud.
Warm and sweet I feel, yet taught for this The Savior was slain,
and that our sweetness still calls for the tide of his blood.
You take my hand in yours, warm yet calloused, harsh like silk.
Our secret thing, our shared sin, to touch while out of sight.
God watches, but will he let it go, for this is our soul’s milk
and I feel so holy and sure, when she holds my hand so tight.
The little wooden church, white against the grey and blue sky.
The stonewall seperates us from God, the sacred from the profane.
You let go my hand. You smile at me secretly. We are so sly!
I see only beauty and love in you, but God said there is always a stain.
We sit down on a pew together, as the sun pushes away the clouds.
The dim sanctuary becomes as honeyed as your long, silky hair.
The glow and light of the sacred words the holy books enshroud.
As church begins, we sing the hymns, our loving hearts a pure prayer.