They buttoned their shirts right up to their heads.
Not a single blight in their church-approved look,
They checked off each list in their long-winded book.
Their children were combed, their shoes were all shined.
Their Bibles and booklets prepared on the dime.
They hopped into cars that were beautifully waxed.
Polished and shined, their shoes nicely blacked.
Oh yes, they were perfect, God's holy elect.
All their T's nicely crossed, their I's carefully specked.
Their harmony perfect, oh yes they could sing!
Their four parts created a melodious ring.
When lo and behold, the back door gave a squeak,
And in walked a woman with crocs on her feet.
She looked out of place as she surveyed the crowd,
Feeling conspicuous like a bump on their log.
She turned around slowly while the parishioners stared.
She could feel the discomfort rise up through the air.
So she silently trundled back out to the street
Looking down grimly at her croc-covered feet.
And she spoke in a voice that was too low to hear.
I thought maybe Jesus could help me down here.
But it seems I'm too lost, can't be saved anymore.
I guess I'll just quit, should've known this before.
And back at the church, the singing resumed.
The folks were relieved with the old peaceful tune.
Their previous discomfort had left through the door,
Trudging so sadly across their church floor.
As they turned to John three and found verse sixteen,
They read it in gratefulness for what had all been.
Their Saviour had come and had shown them the way.
He could've ignored them and left them to stray.
And out in the dark, away down the street,
Walked a woman alone in croc-covered feet.
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