Good seed, bad soil

The Sower goes forth to sow.
In the Church we are thinking,
“We have the good seed, we are the good soil.”

The preacher preaches mightily, eloquently.
His youthful vigor alarms us.
We think, “My! How well he preaches!
He is the tallest priest in the diocese too, 
and so handsome.
What a good witness he is.”
Then we settle in to be entertained.
Though bread of the Word is offered,
our eyes ice it, and we eat cake.

Does he realize what field he is dropping the good seed into?
Does he sense that his footprints will leave their mark
only for a moment?
Does his heart really believe what he is saying?
Has he been traduced, reviled, led out to be stoned
for his testimony?
Does he love it, to see the people smile?

The earth has brought forth her harvest,
but there are none to reap.
The crops gathered into the barn
have been sated.
The wedding feast has already begun,
and the doors have been sealed.
Poor unwise unvirgins, tattooed and pierced,
bad soil infertile of the good seed,
abandoned outside.

The Bridegroom come and knocking is told,
“No room here at the inn.”
But for those inside the banquet hall,
frolic and feast, without Him.
Where in the world can He go now?

“Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: 
for my head is filled with dew, 
and my locks with the drops of the night.”