Sandy Peden, prophet of the Covenant

 

It was that Sabbath.

Last one inside the Kirk.

Preacher Peden shook hands

Smiling with that slight hint of courage…

Brethren, this is it.

Thanks for showing 

In spite of drizzle.

So what is drizzle

In face of our trusty Covenant

And pledge, to the bloods.





No King, no stench of

Political favour, Bishoping

From postures of convenience

And personal gain.

Will head up the church. Never.

Rather our presbyteries

Selecting each good shepherd

Guide, father in faith, bringer

Of peace, love and hope.





We have had battles, deaths, tortures

Cries of hatred filling the air.

Disturbing the sheep in the heather.

(and so went his message

For extra-long duration.)

Then to the large front door

Parishioners passing through

Solemn silence, heads lowered.

Alexander, the Man of God

Raps the Big Door.

Thrice. With force.

(Shocking some larks to light

And fly off.)

Locking it. Sobs manifold in our hearing. 

To the hills

We all surmise.

In precious secrecy.