Light floating around a high church touching
The steeples, touching
Colored fresco. Light through stain-glass panes
On polished stone, on gilded
Wood. It fractures through the quiet, holy water.
Candles burning heavenward, but never marry
A cloud; their wax, dull as pearls.
The altar — a hollow of shadows and verse,
Holy man’s fingers grown milky
Like a nun’s skin. Both invalids wearing white.
Pews drag out the false; in hymns, they weep.
Their souls burn when they kneel;
Part with loose change to aggrandize collection plates;
Yet, they plod wondering,
Wanting to be saved by the holy scriptures.
Come you indoors, sinners, come into the light,
Mollify your sins of an earthly
Life. We praise thee. Mend your ways in your
Heart’s vault. Be taken in by the
Halos of saints and their judicious, lofty views.
We thank thee who have come to this sanctuary,
Who have been christened —
Infants to a birth. The night is no longer a shawl;
Your faults are mended.
Glorify the light and whence it came, strangers and wayfarers.
Copyright © 01/02/18 lance sheridan®