The altar is cold, and barren against the touch
Warm wine poured forth into silver goblets
Drunk by silhouettes, murmuring.
They come and they leave,
Circulating like the warm wine in the body
That gradually turns
Cold.
The keyboards sing a praise
A resounding cymbal
Clap your hands, all ye instruments
They compliment the bassist with the brilliant
walking bass line,
and listen to the 16-beat roll of the drums.
Weekly, they pass like shadows
From the noonday sun,
The same handshakes, the same smiles
The same greetings,
Hows your baby doing?
We do not have ears, we cannot hear.
Vengeance is mine, I will repay.
Sounds the great and terrible Voice
And even the pews tremble.
W.J.H
1 comment:
I hope you're not feeling too badly about crusades-church issues. See you around soon, we should meet for a good long chat like our pgp ones at the cafe at dusk watching night fall (:
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