In this tall church, so empty and so cold

To some, to others otherwise, I sit,

Too tired to pray, and wait.


The arches almost soar; far off, the Cross

Is there, pale painted Christ, His mother, and

His friend; no lights, no love.


There is some meaning here for me, but I,

The weary traveller, cannot take it in -

My heart rejects His pain.


For what? I ask. Are my sins never done

Wearing me out? This cold, it does not seem

To warm or light. And love?


How easily that word appears to mean.

But does he, on the real Cross, think I care?

I do, but sad, far off.


I have become at home in all this cold.

The emptiness is echoed in my soul.

This church can make me pray.


And so I do. a little - random words

For help. The stranded traveller, longing to

Be gone from all this gloom.


Then from the darkness of the tower, birds

Swoop, hopeful, towards the Cross, alight along

The outstretched arms, and rest.


Perhaps the shadows have withdrawn a bit.

Perhaps the cold is ebbing from my heart.

Perhaps this could be peace.