Shafts of sun, half-hued by broken glass
Of arched, stained windows, pierce the smoky gloom
Of the abandoned sanctuary, the tomb
Of old devotions. Pipes of silver, brass,
And gold now hold no tone; no sonic note
Now quivers from the organ’s limbs to lift
The incense-dust from pages which the gift
Of God’s blest Ghost inspired the men who wrote.
Is no life, then, within? The empty space
That fills the open, golden tent of Christ
Does no remembrance haunt of when the King
Of Kings, Creator, Word, dwelt in this place?
Hark! ‘Round the stone where God was sacrificed,
Swift angels still unheard hosannas sing.
T. G. 9/3/21
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