This Is the Church

This is the church

And this is the steeple

Open the doors to see all the

Empty pews

The warped wood worn with

The time and the affection

That the altar has seen

Though its eyes are covered by

White

Red

Purple cloth

That reflect the

Colors from the rosy cheeks of a young man

Frozen in the stained window frame

Looking across to the symbol of

His heaviest battle

And greatest reward

Hanging in the same fashion

For all to look at

while they close their eyes

And bow their heads

And turn to the wooden floors

That creak with every shift of an impatient child

Or every tear of the widow

Receiving the bread and the wine

on the days she misses her husband

on the days she misses her granddaughter

who hung from the tall ceilings

in the same fashion

Covered not in purple

But the white of a pale face

Which couldn’t face another

Empty room

Or empty pews

To reflect an empty call

She made with her empty faith

In the church

With the steeple.