It's always quiet in this holy place;
I shuffle toward the front down worn-out aisles,
Waiting for another Sunday's trails
To cast feet and knees upon its red carpet.
I stand, tears falling from my face,
Not quite knowing how
To find the yesterdays I lived before.
They dance and trickle through my mind and long
To be more free
And join in chorus with the songs I sing,
Free at last, free at last! And more
Than this, they want that freedom to be strong
Enduring, never (oh never!) again to ignore
That call, never again to seek return
To those keyless locks and chains I left
So far behind.
The room fades and I feel wholly bereft
Of all hope. I drop my gaze and stare
At the quiet floor. They say to live and learn;
If you seek, you'll find.
In this quiet, I feel unaware
Of God, of all holy powers stirring,
And alone, trapped in empty churches. All
Seems somehow lost,
Yet in this loneliness of carpeted walls,
Somehow separate from the pulpit wood,
There is a growth in me, a strange maturing
That underbids its cost
And shows me this is really for the good.