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