No more altar, vestments, stained glass.
The last cross is taken from the church.
Broken plaster lies where the font was.
A priest in a white-washed world, you search
for the black you wore, the dirge you sang
as if it were all the liturgy meant
when in the bell tower the bells rang
and no one came and no one went,
the marriage ended between him and you,
as love sometimes quits between lovers,
God having left the place, who knew
your refusal, all that suffering uncovers,
reveals in the heart, the sanctuary
unattended to, the hymns unsung,
too few in the pews, the daily
strain of unlocking the doors, the tongue
silenced by unbelief, the slow deadening
pace of days. Outside, the homeless
line up for meals, patiently waiting,
the mouths to feed, the sores to bless.
Read more of Peter Weltner‘s poetry in DM 89