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Day 17: Tiny old churches

Posted on 0


There’s a sacred silence

that occupies

tiny old churches,

Where the cross

hasn’t been replaced

by the Pastor’s face,

Where His nail scarred

hands glow gently

through the stained glass window,

Where the wooden bench is

tanned by the tears it has drank

as saints poured out their hearts,

Sitting in the silence,

I feel my eyes mutate

into fountains,

I know not why I weep,

No band is playing,

No priest is praying,

Nothing grand thing is happening,

Just a familiar warm touch

In a tiny ‘not so

spiritual to most eyes’

kind of church

Love & Blessings

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