i am a child of Christendom


i am a child of Christendom,

born of  the dappled light

of stained glass windows,

that turn morning sunshine

into shards of aged gold and regal crimson,

telling stories of with blue-eyed faints

wearing robes of kingly purple,

i am a child of Christendom,

living days of mortal life

measured by slowly melting candles,

that turn the fire of God

into free-form sculptures of flowing wax,

upon the brass of candlesticks,

polished in devotion

by  unseen saints in dark and modest dresses.

i am a child of Christendom,

through whose soul the swell of organ pipes

has woven chords of majesty,

well-ordered hymnody,

at times in plain, monastic uniformity

and in simple, four-part harmony.

i am a child of Christendom,

whose footsteps followed paths, well worn and worthy,

cornerstones set on firm foundation,

marble pillars rising high into lofty realms,

nearly unreachable realms of saints and starry crowns,

a realm of permanence in a far-too-quickly changing world,

in a far-too-quickly changing world.

yes, i am a child of Christendom,

a sadly fading memory

of the once everlasting way

now lost among the echoes

of the still and silent bells.





The End

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