Beneath a wooden steeple,
Man’s stone made church

Rice paper words
Upon mortal tongue,
Sever deep

Facades of truth
Flung fast by flesh

The unjust and unattained
Inflicted upon
Innocents

Leather bound spotlight
Fixed upon every sinful speck
By those with covered mirrors,
And a satchel of stones at the ready.

Destined to be more
Some rise above

Designed to be greater
Some fail to excel

Delivered we shall see,
Our eyelids can never keep out the light.

They may turn off the music,
Yet we shall dance

They will scorn our hearts cry,
Yet these hearts shall remain etched

They can desecrate our buildings,
Yet our temples shall still stand.

In the darkness a comfort
Through each storm,
A reassurance

The stem may bend,
Yet the rose still blooms.

Stand in the garden,
Beyond the steeple
Know more by the bark of the tree,
Than by the stain of the pew.

Stained glass tears,
Lay now upon my feet
The shards of shattered hope,
A longing to be complete.










- J.G. Smith (11/17/06)