Immortal, Impossible, God only knows
How tenors and basses, sopranos, altos
At Service on Sunday are rarely the same
As those who on Thursday to choir practice came.
Unready, unable to sight-read the notes,
nor counting, nor blending, they tighten their throats,
The descant so piercing is soaring above
The melody only a mother could love.
They have a director, but no one knows why,
No one in the choir deigns turn him an eye.
It's clear by his waving, he wants them to look,
But each of them stands with his nose in the book.
Despite the offenses, the music rings out.
The folks in the pews are enraptured, no doubt.
Their faces are blissful, their thoughts are so deep,
It's after the sermon, and they're still asleep.
Conrad Hoffsommer - Music Technician, Luther College, Decorah, Iowa 52101-1045