(Visited St. Paul's Cathedral today. Got to sit and listen to a man play the organ for quite some time.)
The kingdom of heaven resides not in towering
stone walls or proudly raised windows of rainbow glass, and yet, this place is
holy. Mortal hands carved mortal images of heavenly things, to mimic eternity
and celebrate sanctity. The whispers of a thousand humble prayers rise up like
gentle wisps of smoke, to all join together in an unintelligible hum.
Many thousands of feet have passed the
threshold through good and bad times both, pilgrims in search of one thing or
another, some with holier intent. Others seek only a feast for the mortal eye.
The holier seekers seek a feast for their weary, travel beaten souls, drawn out
of despair or lack of comfort. Through so many years of burning fire, ever
speedy plague, rampaging enemy soldiers and the violent flood of apathy and disbelief,
pilgrims never failed to journey with determination.
Some might say the beauty was only a reflection
of human pride, of how grand the human hand could be, and yet the beauty was
not meant to be so. A picture, a gift back to the first Creator. Though only a
small mimicry, far behind anything created by the First, it is still a noble
attempt. A house, a place of joyfully sung thanks and anguished whispered pleas
for help in times when there is no hope.
A resting place, a fountain of peace to fill
up the mournful or the lost.
A safe place from the dangers outside, the
rock unshifting in the raging storm.
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