Magazine article The Spectator

Mystery of the Silver Chair

Magazine article The Spectator

Mystery of the Silver Chair

Article excerpt

As if God's glory, with just one sun-ray, Could not burn craters in a chromosome, We call it kindly when it works our way, And, some of us with tact, some with display, Arrange the house to make it feel at home.

With votive tokens we propitiate Almighty God. Just to be neat and clean -- Running the water hot to rinse the plate, Chipping the rust-flakes from the garden gate -- These things are silent prayers, meant to be seen.

Strange, though, when parents with a stricken child Still cleanse the temple, purify themselves.

They were betrayed, but how do they run wild?

With J-cloth and a blob of Fairy Mild They wipe the white gloss of the kitchen shelves.

They, least of all, are likely to let go Completely, like the slovens down the street:

The ones who could conceal a buffalo In their front lawn and you would never know, Yet somehow they keep their Creator sweet.

Unjust, unjust: but only if He's there. …

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