04-14-2015, 06:16 AM
A church of rounded stones
in grey morose tableaux,
but on this hot Epping morning,
a stone's throw from the dozing woods,
you feel like an Anglican ghost.
You take the Word of Israel,
sung in a pianist's key,
the fleshless glory of the Christ
up there in coloured glass.
But man always intrudes.
Man made the church, you know,
played the song which sung the Word.
And Christ Himself was flesh,
the glory holding like a stone
in grey morose tableaux.
in grey morose tableaux,
but on this hot Epping morning,
a stone's throw from the dozing woods,
you feel like an Anglican ghost.
You take the Word of Israel,
sung in a pianist's key,
the fleshless glory of the Christ
up there in coloured glass.
But man always intrudes.
Man made the church, you know,
played the song which sung the Word.
And Christ Himself was flesh,
the glory holding like a stone
in grey morose tableaux.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe