Hidden Treasures

I recall the sweet remnant of a dream: The ruins of a church on an ancient street. Inside its weeping walls were worn and grey And old stone statues seemed to grimly stare. Although it columns were cold and broken And where we stood shadows seemed to lengthen, It was filled with a gentle, mystic light: Healing our hearts with its radiance white. And in that most solemn of sanctuaries, A cross of gold was shining so brightly. In that humble abode eroded by time: A flashing glimpse of the eternal design. How sad to think that such a wondrous place Is disdained in this rampant, modern age.