Saints in the old stone of the portals
Bless us.
Rain drizzles on slabs at the entrance.
Drops shape and fall down the iron staves of the fence.
When I touch the door, the wood is colder than dawn.
Inside, by tangible olive or lavender light,
I find in all the things men made in praise of Him
Why God so loved the world he forgave us.
The strong cathedral walls exhale our striving
Like a vapor, almost alive,
Like our own breath.
I'm alone here, very nearly.
December's rain keeps other travelers away.
But ghosts crowd Christ's airy altars
Through changes of raw light
Still telling their prayers.
They have no other place to stay.
I fall silent, listening to them.
Like them, I have no home, unless it is here.
The chill of fear. I shudder.
Saints
Intercede for me.
I kneel, barren before God.
My work is no fit gift. It fails.
Burning, I bear my fault,
And offer tears, graceless as I look up,
lost
In the windows, stilled wheels
Turning light. How they jewel the pillars
And stir blue stain into glooms
Flooding these ancient wooden carvings-
All the great work of man given God
Lives saved in their labor
For centuries.
These ghosts are strong.
But has that been enough for them?
Even if our labor redeems us-
Us who for labor are cherished and changed-
Is that enough for a life?
O altitudes
we walk among
out of our human love
I want to believe
more
than I have
in my hands,
Ministers of light!
If the red fruit had been gift-fallen from the appletree, given to eat,
If we had not had to weep and suffer and leave Paradise, absent ourselves
From all that we loved best, would we not have come to Chartres anyhow?
I know that I am naked
and must labor
and will die
Alone.
But I want back what grace once gave to us.
Still
terrible God
Forgive me.