On Sunday when the choir sings
I do not think of angel wings
But rather of a weathered hinge
Upon a rusty squeaking binge.
I know the singers are sincere
In wanting God to be quite near
But voices free of practice are
Made to set my teeth ajar.
I really do not mean to sneer;
I often wish for a tin ear.
And in my heart I sure do know
That church is not a talent show.
And those who come close unto God
Are never featured on iPod.
The fault is mine, I do confess,
But is it wrong to seek finesse?
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