A Walk Under A Ladder

Roll back the tides of time, and tell, Of ancient books of myths, of hell, Of temperance, nuns succumbed to gloom, Entombed within their living tombs, Of monks, and saints, and gospel song, Born gently by the breeze, along, Of deep toned organs' peeling swells, Of virgins, Mary, and funeral knells, Of dim-lit cells and penance loaned, Which can for one's darkest deeds, atone, Look back and lift the veil of night, And view the man, the anchorite, There he sits, so sad, so pale, Shuddering at superstition's tale, Crossing his chest with meager hand, While saints and priests, a motley band, Array before him to urge their claim, To heal, in the Redeemer's name, To climb the heavenly ladder, made, By every patron, of every grade, From wealthy abbot, fat and fair, To starving child, withering there, All of them eager to usher in, The soul, ransomed by It's sin, And tell me hapless bigot, why, For what, for whom did Jesus die, If pyramids and statues of saints must rise, To form the passage to the skies, Would you think man can wipe away, With what but penance, day by day, One single sin, too dark to fade, Beneath a bleeding Savior's shade.