Bells
As host is raised, aloft in human hands,
no spatial shift is seen, nor doth texture change.
No strange scent smelled, and taste merely commands,
the memory of bread; surely nothing strange.
Yet one sense registers the transformation,
it is the ear alone that guides our faith,
bells of silver ring through ev'ry nation,
and hearken to His words as he sayeth:
"Sanctify these gifts", the best we could refine,
in perfect clarity, we hear purest notes,
elements aligned to grace, from bread and wine.
All in accord, from the sunbeams to the motes.
And when the bell stops ringing, yet angels keep on singing,
one solemn cry—a faithful sigh—of alabaster gleaming.
6 March 2017
Written for "The Noise" contest, sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
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