CLOISTERS:

Wandering through whispering halls of eons past,

Places where the sacred words of God linger & last,

You of ministries, monasteries, secret mantles drawn,

Of convents & abbeys, sweet chantings sung at dawn.

Not of Amish anguished, shying from the outer world,

Not minion simple, nor Mennonite from society hurled,

You, throwing your splendid spired arms into God´s sky,

You yelling, chanting, singing, “Lord be praised, here am I”,

Garbed in filigreed fog & ivy, ice-cold & dark greenly creeping,

Lullaby´d by Gothic chantings & by doubting novice weeping,

Soft clicking of old rosary beads, sweaty & nervously fingered,

Nuanced shadows of incense, waltzed, wafted & sickly lingered.

You, who’s God brings the cloven-hoofed sinners to humble heel,

Threatening hell´s brimstone to all horned ones refusing to kneel,

Sanguined glass stained with blood, altar, font & old eagled lectern,

Do not tempt nor lure me in, to bow beneath God´s eyes so stern.

Be it the tabernacle, chapel, church or humble evangelistic hall,

It matters not where I kneel & pray, nor in the end where I so fall,

My God is God in everywhere & my God is in absolutely everything,

He´s in all Holy books & in all we say, all we pray & everything we sing.

But ancient cloisters built in stone, in wood & wistful bloody tears,

Stand mighty through old centuries & strong through passing years,

I now stand before your beauty & bow down to your exquisite calm,

This place where I feel the glory of God & receive his blessed balm.