The flames of Tabor
Beneath a freezing Luna moth moon
The Arsonist was darkly drawn
Drawn yearning anything burning
The old left side wooden door opening
Strewn on worn hand hewn planks
Hymn pages beneath empty pews
Blest be he ties and binds the kindling
For flames of darkness thanking
In Tabor today no Holy flame dwells
Just a deep, deep dried up well
Beneath the Live Oaks on Sundays gathering
The Methodist mice and moth lost Congregation.
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