Leaning

Leaning out the window,

I gaze on down the street,

I hear the church bells ringing,

Their distant melody.

The sun is slowly rising,

The air is clear and bright,

The cars on the street are rushing,

As they have all through the night.

I view the palms from above,

I see the figures by the path,

Mary holding Jesus,

Babe held tightly in her grasp.

It’s a pleasant Sunday morning,

And I ride the bus alone,

To church down in the religious square,

Past the center of Rome.

The church bells continue ringing,

Filling the air with sound,

I turn round the corner,

There it is, the church I’ve found.

Leaning out a window,

High above the busy street,

A women rests, chin on hands,

In the sunshine morning heat.

I see her from where I stand,

Outside the churchyard gate,

She appears in no mood to move,

No desire but to watch and wait.

She views the palms from above,

Sees the figures by the path,

A Scottish cross in granite stone,

Arms outstretched to all who ask.

‘Its Sunday,’ I wish to say to her,

To bid her come on down,

To not merely listen to the bells,

But venture closer to the sound.

And yet she sits unmoving,

As the traffic rushes by,

And I walk inside the building,

Pictures hang of Christ crucified.

It’s a cool clear Sunday Morning,

And I’m content as can be,

For I’m in the sunlit city of Rome

And God’s son died for me.

If only that woman would quite her leaning,

And come to church today,

If only her heart was open to learning,

She’d hear what He has to say.