It was raining hard in Brooklyn, on a dark December day br A priest was passing a garage sale, that was on his way br His eye caught a tablecloth, it was red and with a cross br To cover up the damage of the plaster he had lost br br Rain had damaged the pulpit wall, 'a sorry sight to see br So he covered it with the tablecloth, to cover the debris br A lady was befriended, by the priest, on her way back home br He invited her in to Gods house, where God had blessed each stone br br Like drowned rats they entered, the place where saviors dwelt br She offered up a pray, on her knees she knelt br She looked up and saw the the tablecloth, and to the preacher said br Please look, is there a signature, three letters sewn in red br br The letters were the signature, from thirty five years before br When atrocities in Germany in the wake of a world war br Her husband had been taken, because he was a Jew br She had never heard or seen him since, one of but a few br br The priest took her home and thanked her, and blessed her for her story br And returned to take a sermon, Christmas eve in all its glory br Alone an old man gazed, at the cross upon the wall br Tears ran from his eyes, the preacher did recall br br That cloth cross, upon the wall! its embroidered in my mind br My wife made one similar, on the bottom she had signed br The preacher, drove the old man, to the place his wife resided br And reunited them together, I think God had decided!br br Bob Gibsonbr br