It was a stiflingly hot morning
In that little old country church
Not a sign of a breeze blowing
No matter how hard you searched
Pastor long ago shed his coat
Sweated brow, loosened his tie
“Hell will be much hotter than this”
A fact no one would dare deny
Sister Bertha sat with her friends
Sister Wilma, and, Sister Jane, their names
The widow’s fans worked overtime
To keep cool, no one would blame
Stifling a yawn, Bertha looked up
Was startled at what she spied
A spider descending a web it spun
Inch by inch downward it tried
Nudging sister Wilma, she whispered
“Nudge Sister Jane, then look up”
“Be quiet and do it very slowly”
“Just don’t do anything abrupt”
Inconspicuous, they tried to be
As they watched that spider drop
Whispering, giggling, they made a bet
On where that arachnid would stop
It was directly above the pastor
Roughly ten feet above his head
Crawling, creeping down that strand
Would stop, look around instead
“I bet it will land on top of him”
“No, on the podium it will land”
“Probably drop down beside him”
“No, it will end up where he stands”
By this time many others saw it
Were watching the progress it made
The congregation, they looked up
At that fascinating arachnid tirade
The pastor paused, he also looked up
The spider, it landed on his face
It took off, he screamed, passed out
And the choir sang “Amazing Grace”
June 14, 2022