Thanksgiving

They sat, all twenty one, like silent lambs. The church was cold and from the spire there were sounds, strung from the pulpit was a bunch of local hams it was Thanksgiving and the beggars made their rounds. Give what you can they said, it is the way of God, and folks would come weighed down by baskets and by bags and not a single man would find it very odd that not the butcher but the streetbum brought the snags. They were the best that premium meat could re-create, God's call was paramount and brought the masses down and as the bell tolled singing out to them their fate they looked with sheepish eyes up to their saviour's crown. It was of thorns and must have been a real pain dried blood was marking righteous nails in hands and feet, the preacher talked about the past, he mentioned Cain, and that the home of Mr Streetbum had no heat. He praised the man for giving all to sick and poor, the congregation basked despite their frozen breath, home was a cardboard box, his kids could not endure the love of God nor did His grace prevent their death.