Days and months go by
And he is barely noticed
This quiet farmer of souls devoted to the quiet growing
Of his flock. He doesn’t amass garlands of praise
And he has never written a book
Or spoken at a conference of his peers - he lives hidden,
Unknown to many, not even an enigma.
He’s all very ordinary. But his delight is to act as a host
To allow The God to be the grace-filled Guest
In each life he meets - in supermarket queues,
Or at hospital beds, or in the sanctuary of homes.
And when he leads his family of faith
With the sacred words “Let us worship God”,
He covets their hearts made holy and their imaginations
Soaring in the transcendent, and he aches to see
Their humanity transformed.
He regrets his inabilities and hates his sin:
There is only one real evident sadness in life-
Not to be a saint.
The pastor watches and prays and reads God’s Word
And nothing much happens, save the silent growing
Of souls immersed in the lively love of the Trinity.
