Justice on Sundays

Sundays were always strange days

Never work and never play

Always sing and always pray

Always must and never may

Never doubt – or never say

Always live above the fray

Of tears and fears and never pay

A passing thought to justice.

Sundays were always hard days

Hard shoes and hard clothes

Hard faces of hard posed

Folk with stiffened hard kept oaths

To a very distant hard, closed

God who, with hard grace, was proposed

To have what seemed a tough, hard nosed

Exacting sense of justice.

Sundays were always tight days

Tight shoes and tight pants

Tight schedules and tight plans

Tight hearts and tight little bands

Of tight friends in tight clans

Tight minds with tight stands

On tight questions – No shifting sands - 

Just a hollow sense of justice.

Sundays were always straight days

Straight shoes with straight laces

Straight rules and straight faces

Straight men in strait places

Straight mothers in strait traces

Of strictly silent straightened graces

Straight prayers, Straight stares

Which silenced me, and any thought of justice.

Sundays were always dark days

Dark shoes and dark ties

Dark songs hid dark lies

Dark answers to my dark ‘whys?

Dark glances, and dark cries

From this dark soul; with darkened eyes

Amid a darkening guilt, God, I tried

To stand your ground of justice.

Sundays were always false days

False images and false ways

False words in false praise

False thoughts, a mind in haze

Guilt and ache, innocence razed

False deeds, a soul a mazed

False confessions, spirit crazed

And lost inside, my silent cry for justice.

 © Philip Knight 2018