Bethesda Field

Below the harsh lights in a late inning chill,

On third was a runner events could soon strand,

Repenting his sins while in truth sinning still,

He looked home to gather what fate would demand.

The old man arising at this godly hour,

Beyond any reason, by some fearsome whim,

No giant of nature, but once hit with power,

Now no one expects more heroics of him.

The fans all despair at the count, oh and two,

Hope slipping away, as statistics revealed

No viable chances, the young pitcher threw,

One last swing, the ball lifted out to right field,

A blessed trajectory plucked from the sky,

The run scored from third on a sacrifice fly.