Stained glass windows – milky –
Open on old-timey hinges,
Mingling hallowed and hillside air;
Still, this air is sacred,
Sanctified by the day and the Word preached on it.
How many elbows have touched on this smooth pew’s armrest?
How many worshippers sitting still and thoughtful,
Up against the mica-rock wall,
One ear to the messenger, and one to baby voices;
A sailor dress and smocked yellow ducks in the church yard?
How many Sabbath eyes looking inward
Have also looked out that lovely rectangle
At rock stack, at stem, at glint and sloped green glory,
And found messenger and mountain fellow choristers?
How many work-clad bodies come to the mountain
And to this stone sanctuary
From hot valleys,
And finding it, like all who came before.
God is on mountains.
I have known this.