Earthly palaces, scattered the world round,
Are as much yours as they are, as such, mine.
Inside, the body is defined and bound,
In a sacred cadence with Bread and Wine;
Fine statues, stations, stained glass, and bells sound;
A sacred altar is where the guests all dine.
One organism, of bone and flesh, a sign,
A mystical presence; its Head: King, crowned.
Why today are so many in exile?
“My ghost has thrown off the yoke!” they proclaim,
Blaspheming the Lord who foresaw the pew and aisle
As the meeting place to kindle the flame,
All of human creation, Jew and Gentile,
A sure house for healing the sick and lame.
Gary Edward Geraci
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Author:
Gary Edward Geraci (
Offline) - Published: April 1st, 2023 16:10
- Comment from author about the poem: A sonnet
- Category: Spiritual
- Views: 10
Offline)
Comments2
Thumbs up for the sonnet, Gary.
Without a religious bone in my body, I really have great regard for, especially, cathedrals. And despite the earthly wealth and power which created them, I can sit inside their vastness (if quiet, not too touristy) and reach a state of quiet contemplation not often achieved elsewhere.
A contradiction? Probably.....
I praise God in reading this, Dog. Reminds me of Mr. Neil Peart, the famous Canadian rock drummer (Rush), clinician master, and notable atheist, having a similar experience in a cathedral, found across his many diverse travels, and as recounted in his book, Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road. A brush with the supernatural I’d like to think …
Good write Gary.
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