The Soul's Room

I'm a bit short of both inspiration and time today, so forgive me if I use this opportunity to put up a poem I wrote a few years ago. I rarely write poetry, and have to be in the mood. This one is a conversion story, of sorts, but not mine because I never smoked and hardly ever drank.

The air is stale with smoke and ale

And the dust of all that’s old.

A threadbare chair squats, broken, there

By the hearth so icy cold.

Trembling, I took a golden book

And settled in the dust to read.

The warm words flowed, new strength bestowed,

The spirit knew my bitter need.

The Saviour came, He spoke my name

Cast heavenly light into the gloom.

Cleansed every part, restored my heart.

A Temple pure he made my room.