Church on Sunday, church on Sunday, I’ve got to go to church on Sunday. Early Mass is in the native language of the people, the established few who built it, left their names engraved on plaques on pews, stained black in stained glass windows stretching tall to hallowed painted ceilings with God pointing to his chosen ones.
I sit in church of nature where the altar boys wear fur and feathers, where the congregation scurries to the rail to partake in body, blood of seed and water. The hummers flit from post to post to light the candles glowing in their cups of red and yellow. The ceiling here is higher than cathedrals and painted shades of blue. The windows mostly green with splash of color changed with season. He decorates with sparkling white for Christmas celebration, and wears the vestments of orange in the fall. Organ plays in birdsong, all in harmony shall sing their own. He is here and all around and doesn’t pass the basket nor ask for any else but adoration, which I feel. Confessionals stand empty on a Sunday morning, filled in blackness of remorse on Saturday night.
I look up and believe. I am in awe.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
exactly the way i feel too. put very very beautifully. with honesty and brilliance!
Beautifully put. 🙂
Cathedrals and churches are only stone forests, pretty, but not the real thing.
Only way to go to church in the summertime!
Wonderful post. I’m more spiritual than religious and take great joy in witnessing the events of nature. There’s nothing like the joy and peacefulness brought on by a beautiful day. It makes me feel greatful to be alive.
This was told so beautifully, and with such simplicity. I adore it when a writer makes the assumption that we will agree with their point of view, and therefore feels free to illuminate the entire experience so that we might share their vision. I truly appreciated this opportunity to go to church on Sunday.