Church
Door in the Ruins
by Dee H. Wade
The church
door in the ruins
yawns without hinges or wood
encases nothing but time
frames but misty centuries
yet in stony silence stands
to usher new pilgrim souls
into the old assembly.
Inside
looks much like outside —
sky above and grass below —
but across the smoothed threshold,
pressed between stark naked walls,
lies resilient sacred space
and the perceptive imbibe
wispy remnants of presence:
the great Book of Days intoned,
the scent of candle tallow,
wind felt from long dead pigeons
winging high toward absent vaults,
the taste of bread soaked in wine
and bent country folk are seen
arising at last to dance.
Thus
the future of every church:
they all die, including yours
but something solid abides.
Very truly I say to you
I am the gate for the sheep.
I came that they might have life
and have it abundantly.
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