Sankey the Singer

He pulled graveyard

Shift again

Clear autumn night

So cold and moon full.

On yonder crest

One Yankee stood

Backlit, like the fool he was.

Enfield resting on a rock

Steady for the kill.

Thoughts of hostilities

Still fresh, haunting.

But Yank was singing!

Rich, clear baritone.

And the song was one

Momma loved and

Mastered.

Spoke of soul Salvation...

Years later and business booming

Christmas holiday respite

On a steamboat excursion.

Entertainment imminent.

Come join in the song

And antics.

The Reb felt disinclined.

Gay lights, wandering river

Notwithstanding.

Persistent churning waterwheel.

Like his anxious heart.

Until a song issued 

From the parlour.

That Voice

That recollection.

His Momma’s words.

The Yank saved.

Somehow.

Turns out the Yank

Now travels with D L Moody

Evangelists.

Back from great responses

In Britain, Scotland.

Is God in all of this?

Has to be...yup.

(Soul saved by a song in the soupy mix of Grace.)

*true story about Ira Sankey and one restored sniper.