Ash Wednesday (a poem…of sorts)

He wore the ash upon his head

my childish eyes, I thought him dead

a blackened cross, creased and stained

of sweat and dirt the mark remained.

 

I glanced again, i’m not sure why

partly out of foolish eyes

prying back these feeble thoughts

of how the dead could somehow walk

 

I gripped my father’s hand real tight

as the moon shone down on that night

stained glass, an aged building bright

with church goers streaming, it was a sight.

 

With reassurance my father said, 

be not afraid, they are not dead

though on that night an organ wailed 

and we walked a pilgrim’s trail.

 

A cross is smeared upon their head

much alive, though some are dead

a reminder to this heart so true 

to love and serve God, now…will you?