The Church
Upon his rock he built it
washed throughout the world,
through the toll of bells in the air
and the curl of smoke, rising.
Snakes that silently slithered
whispering 'come hither' to those in need.
Then they feed and take away the light that rose,
fell deep to the depths and rose again.
Only he who can be like a child will enter
through gates adorned by light and flower.
Through their lies they dispell your belief,
they sour the fruit that blooms.
Veined marble that beats with the passion of the millenia,
the prayer that dispells the darkness within.
Inside you is the alter, not in the stone or gold that adorns.
Perpetual innocence at battle with sin.
Copyright © Phil Naylor | Year Posted 2012
|