BEHIND THE ALTAR
In the sanctum of the sanctum sanctorum,
Lies the quiet hope of mankind's grace.
A whisper of peace through sacred decorum,
Behind the altar — a hallowed place.
Dark clouds weep where light refrains,
While clear skies hold back the flood.
Upon the altar, truth remains
Carved in fire, stone, and blood.
How do we speak of both?
A beginning — and an end?
Before the altar, hearts grow loath
To trust the truth it dares to send.
How do we name the sunrise, the fall?
The dusk that dies, the dawn that breaks?
What holds the night? What breathes through all?
Where shadow bends, the altar wakes.
On what hangs the vault above?
On what is the Earth suspended?
We never asked — nor dreamed thereof —
The questions we’ve pretended.
How do we carry both?
The burden of life and death?
The weight of chance, of silent oaths
Unspoken with each breath?
We should have searched with open minds,
But turned away, afraid to see —
No Heaven, no Hell — just threads we bind
In webs of our fragility.
What does it matter — what we know?
What truth does knowledge ever show?
At journey's end, when time runs slow,
Behind the altar, all shall glow.
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