I wonder if you knew when you founded your Church that it would turn into this:
Magnificent pillars, rich mosaics, beautiful statues,
A lovely, cold emptiness
An apathy that permeates the reverent silence
Is this the gilded cross you bore?
And this your marble crown of thorns?
Idols upon altars do not instill the same awe as a single act of kindness
I wonder how much money was spent on these pillars of righteousness instead of on your will
I wonder how many built this temple in praise of you and how many in praise of themselves
Saints are not all that is buried within these crypts.
I whisper a silent prayer, lest I too forget
Your body is the temple, Oh Lord, not this place
My heart is your altar, Oh Lord, only there will I worship,
Only there do I love.