Our judgment the flint, our pride the steel;
Our hypocrisy the tinder by which we kneel.
We pray over sparks, breathe life into the flames.
Inside this cathedral, ignition through shame.
The white-washed walls crumble, like a house on sand.
Where does the fault lie? – we begin to demand.
The pillars will crumble, like stones we all threw.
A search for a scapegoat to slaughter ensues.
Icons have splintered, shattered apart
flames kindled by all the sin in our hearts.
And yet, once again, a carpenter appears,
equipped to rebuild and wipe up our tears.
He builds up the church away from the sand
on a rock he will build with his own pierced hands.
Anna VanHuis