Member Poem

I watch their faces, rapt in earnest prayer;
their lips move soundlessly as they address
the presence somehow conjured for them there
by all the panoply of holiness:
the smell of incense, soaring vaults of stone,
the light filtered through many-coloured glass,
a priest speaking in booming monotone.
Together, these things summon to the Mass
the God whose love, forgiveness, help they crave.
Look at those eyes, serene in certainty
not just of blissful life beyond the grave
but that their words are listened to, that He
in His omnipotence will lend an ear
to their human concerns; that he will do
or say for them what they most need, that here
if anywhere their wishes will come true.
I envy them. I too, from time to time
have asked for help, even in such a place
but I did not feel touched by the sublime,
heard only my words, echoing in space.