The writing was on the wall outside:
the service ended hours ago; the people gone to
their Sunday dinners, families, fire sides.
The church empty, gaping open, sat
stone cold and silent as the grave,
its pews petrified, unforgiving,
its prayerbooks written in Welsh,
a mess of consonants, indecipherable,
unpronounceable, except for
the writing on walls inside, the names
proclaiming an eternal presence,
an endless cycle of prayer.
Transported, I followed along as their
unheard voices preached the gospel,
passed the peace,
celebrated with the angels and saints,
holy, holy, on holy ground
they drew me quietly into their embrace.
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