Vol.XVI No.III Pg.8
May 1979

Stuff About Things

Robert F. Turner


Dear Lord, it's my conscience that hurtin'

And keepin' me 'way from my work;

There's somethin' keeps pullin' and tuggin'

It's not that I'm wantin' to shirk.

Out there in the distance, those mountains,

Where time was my own — yesterday —

I sat on the rim of a canyon

While nature was havin' her say.

What a sermon! If you could 'a heard it —

Beg pardon, I reckon you did:

Like a teacher a-checkin' his pupil

And smilin' at all that was said.

It was fine Lord, the way the trees praised you

As you played through the leaves with your wind;

And the waterfall, far down below me

Kept thunderin' a mighty, "Amen!"

With shadows, as sextons in purple

A-leadin' the day toward the past,

I climbed down to culture and progress

Like a church-member, back-slidin' fast.

And here in the city's wild clutter

With convention my low-vaulted dome;

In the hush of a moment I hear you

A-callin' your prodigal home.

Aug. 13, 1947