It was raining hard in Brooklyn, on a dark December day <br />A priest was passing a garage sale, that was on his way <br />His eye caught a tablecloth, it was red and with a cross <br />To cover up the damage of the plaster he had lost <br /> <br /> Rain had damaged the pulpit wall, 'a sorry sight to see <br />So he covered it with the tablecloth, to cover the debris <br />A lady was befriended, by the priest, on her way back home <br />He invited her in to Gods house, where God had blessed each stone <br /> <br />Like drowned rats they entered, the place where saviors dwelt <br />She offered up a pray, on her knees she knelt <br />She looked up and saw the the tablecloth, and to the preacher said <br />Please look, is there a signature, three letters sewn in red <br /> <br />The letters were the signature, from thirty five years before <br />When atrocities in Germany in the wake of a world war <br />Her husband had been taken, because he was a Jew <br />She had never heard or seen him since, one of but a few <br /> <br />The priest took her home and thanked her, and blessed her for her story <br />And returned to take a sermon, Christmas eve in all its glory <br />Alone an old man gazed, at the cross upon the wall <br />Tears ran from his eyes, the preacher did recall <br /> <br />That cloth cross, upon the wall! its embroidered in my mind <br />My wife made one similar, on the bottom she had signed <br />The preacher, drove the old man, to the place his wife resided <br />And reunited them together, I think God had decided!<br /><br />Bob Gibson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-tablecloth/
