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PSALM OF THE TOURIST

 

  • It’s cool inside the church, out of the sun:
      We have to stop and wait to feel the place,
     
  • but now we have to pay, we could always leave:
      the people here are nice, they need our money.
     
  • Embraced by this vast cathedral, huge and stately:
      I feel an insignificance, looking upward,
     
  • just think who built these stones and wooden seats:
      the skills are awesome of people dead and gone.
     
  • So I shall some time go, what will I leave:
      Do I have skills to share and leave behind?
     
  • Grandpa dies last week, and he’d been here:
      my friend is worrying too, how can I help?
     
  • Buildings are our history stretching backwards:
      reminding us of other times, different, vibrant,
     
  • for here have stood the great and famous people:
      thousands of ordinary people to meet their God.
     
  • A church is a place that’s full of people:
      my life is formed of people making it special.
     
  • Now we go back to the world outside:
      seeming to feel better; thank you for presence.
     
  • Is this all to do with God:
      have I been there to pray, inside my head?
     
  • It feels a different place, numinous, quiet:
      it’s thousands of prayers held in stone.