The Face Of Christ

It stood alone, this old Church of grey, tombstones scattered around in disarray. Naming Squires and skivvies who’d lived and died in this Hamlet, and now lay side by side. Within, sun shafts sneak between the pews, onto needlepoint hassocks, sewn in blues. And as my feet slowly creep down the aisle, the fair face of Christ on me doth smile. From a stained glass window, arms raised, to bless those, who find their way to this address. He’s in radiant garments of colours bright looking new and fresh still, in the day’s sunlight. I see fading flowers, vases all needing renewal, a rickety boiler, but minus its fuel. Worn Altar cloth, of once Royal hues, and by the door the week’s Parish News. Such silence, all is serene and calm., in this bleak place, and there’s a Psalm Carved out in stone, and in a wall well set, sung often here, accompanied by a soft motet. A Yew tree’s branches hang over iron gates, the roof shows old chipped and mellowed slates, Such sad decay lies all around, and yet the Church lives on through each new sunset.