Reverend Arthur Nesbitt (1879-1950)
In ’31, a man and wife I wed filled my old church with friends and relatives. The groom, a dashing fellow carved from stone; his bride, a dewy blue-eyed beauty true.
The congregation filled the room with blooms, and kin and cousins grinned and wished the best, but when it came to making wedding vows, I noted in the girl some hesitance.
The bride betrayed no fear when marching forth. ’Twas not her words, indeed, her voice was firm. Her eyes, however, gave this preacher pause: they quivered, shaken from an inner storm.