Words to a Departing Cathedral

Goodbye,

aged and blessed cathedral

where, by His touch,

deacon voices sprang alive,
where, under His gaze,
little candle-bearer upheld his flame

(wax dripping on his head),
from whose dim and dusty loft

ancient prayers took flight in song

(soaring past St. Martin de Tours on the high glass,

winging upward toward the dome),

whose pealing echoes

bore heart's secret notes

to the Prisoner

freed
by consecrated hands.