Upon the crimson-brick spire:
Rooted, and to heaven; a cross
Voices of singers raising higher
Nonchalant hearts, sanctified cross.
Purified waters set every entrance
For each head that goes within.
… I love the meekness displayed with no dance,
Men’s fine steps scold at trail of sin;
I love the likeness of God’s face in men,
And angels’ in fresh and wrinkled lasses.
Praise, oh, soul of every brethren!
Blazing candles in their holiest mass.
… I love a heaven-like serenity,
Serene flow of air, and sweet praise
Intriguing hand-sign of trinity.
Oh, I love the candles, their waxing rays;
Shimmering from the holy shrine.
Echoes roaming in calm ears,
The scripture springs hueful divine
Yes, sprinkles; on their decent wears.
From floor of highest height;
His voice reached the steeple
Parishioners in meek-delight,
Of message says of the Bible.
Smouldering incense sweeps the air
Like ritual of a place unknown,
Though I love the scent in there.
They rise, like time to be crown
But they do not cloak on purple and white
Or some gleaming holy ropes to show,
The brightness of their souls’ light…
I like the priest and the holy bow!
Power; reclines in walls of his eyes
For none, semblance of world:
Incense, communion, and all that lies.
But all, heavenly behold?
Rosary beats and neck-poses,
The pose of madonna on the wall
… I love the saintly placed of crosses,
Sanctity, priest-hood, saint-hood, and all;
That beholds the echo serenity.
I saw meekness, intensify spirit
But I can’t tell of ’tis serenity:
If these, are truly heavenly merit.
Written by: Stephen Crøwn Gyet