I am not the church

photo credit: Ž. Markevičius

I am but a structure forged with beam, wood and plaster.
the beautiful and the villainous sit within, side by side;
sheep and wolf, dressed alike, and unable to be sifted by man.

I am well-worn by the feet of children;
oily and stained by the heads of the desperate- those unable to find a bed last night.
Wet with the sweat of saints toiling to turn the tide.

I am loud, thunderous claps and rhythmic sways, signaling things to come.
Holy pauses turning inward to remember.
Bread and wine and ancient words are my offerings.

I am a home for the humble; a prison for the pious;
a fragrant aroma and the stench of death.
A mere museum to house the work on an artist.

I am not the church.
But a house for the waiting bride.
By faith alone, I count her beautiful until I fail and she lives on.