The Church is Crumbling

The stained glass sounds like a wind chime as it falls
That wind, like the choir, brings God back from the dead.
Maybe there is still a pew with a wrinkled hymnbook
and maybe there is one old sister left to sing it like she did at 17,
or maybe there's no one.
Night is falling and the candles have long since given their last breath.
There's a cross on the floor.,
it's wood, slowly turning dust.
No one comes here any more,
everyone has lost their trust.
There is no one to notice when the last drop
of sunshine falls from the altar
to the floor,
like a misplaced molecule of His blood.
There is no one to catch it in a chalice
and exult this little sign of God.
So He packs up, and thinks,
Maybe I'll give it a go on Mars.

This poem is about: 
My community
Our world


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