It is a ritual I remember well
from those bad old Baptist days…
The pastor is wrung dry
from bearing his heart to the people.
And now he stands, head bowed
while we sing all six verses – twice:
“Just as I am, without one plea
but that thy blood was shed for me…”
When I was young, there was
in that place of confession.
That walk up the aisle.
Sins exhaled to a waiting ear.
Today I wonder what
I would confess if
I were to take that walk
toward the praying man.
Perhaps that the dress I’m wearing
costs more than my weekly pledge.
Or maybe, that this narrow place
feels seductively safe
but is no longer my home.