Sound of Faith

Long time ago when I was still a child, I watched my grandpa in his shrine pour out libation, Under the tree and amidst sun’s ferocious tide, To a graven image constructed out of determination. Sacred worships to gods known and unknown, Handed-down by tradition as the story told, In memory of the dead known and unknown, Grandpa the sacred tradition his turn to hold. And then the white man came, From his roaming about though uninvited, Grandpa responded and offered a game, As demanded by his culture when by a stranger visited. The white man introduced his own idea of worship, Though of better value by my judgement, I pondered what in man craves for worship, May be the soul is afraid of judgement. The white man brought a book, In it was written many stories, About a righteous man whose life they took, Who went about doing good as told by the stories. Grandpa believed what the white man brought, The book he called the holy bible, Where God will bring all wickedness to naught, A message of hope to the people. Grandpa his shrine began to destroy, Cathedrals they began to build, Materials they began to deploy, Block by block they began to build. On the alter is laid a cross, To guide them by persecution will fall their faith, To remind them to carry their daily cross, Thus is formed my faith, oh the sound of faith.