Grandfathers Church
Grandfather’s Church
A visit to an old church in Ireland,
Built by dirty hands, their will never tiring
Green lightly stroked, God’s fingers the wind
My eyes, refracted light perhaps distort my sin
My prayers; ancient glories, and ornaments
Incense permeation my senses adoring
A natural longing to kneel and know Him
Perhaps aspiration false, hope abandoned
Yet ‘tis my flesh asking for comfort, not spirit
Faith no longer my keep, His story a symbol
Cloaks of color, His messenger a protection
From faithful words, their fault: no true redemption
No magnificent calling, no love for Thee
‘Tis a cry, a mournful wail, heard only by me
‘Tis not I who will seek, daring I suppose though
To tell him my loss, thy burning the only glow
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