Here I am with my memories.
the only religion I do need,
save your letters as a holy book,
and your tears spilled as an ink.
I see our church as the world…
the mountain pass – our steeple, tall,
a fallen oak – our lectern board.
the rolling grass – our pews and stalls.
The ocean calm – our choir book,
our seven sacraments are stars,
our benediction is a loving look,
sealed with the crossing of your arms.
Our whispers are our orisons,
your warm embrace, my confession booth,
a sermon is a long paean
sung with love from me – to you.
And so, I’ll send these words away,
as missionaries, so all the world can know,
the beauty of the love You made,
and the religion that I know.
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