Here I find myself, in this solemn stately pew,
joined by speckled stained glass rainbows, paying their due.
Cloudy ap-parishioners sing a Latin hymn.
Voices echo from the past, through centuries grown dim.

Saints and martyrs gathered ’round; I’m sitting all alone,
near twisting, twirling, swirling, of intertwining stone,
climbing up grey pillars, to golden vaults’ expanse,
with candle chandeliers raining fireflies that dance.

The godly of the decades, hovering in glass,
Silently worship at this sparrow’s Sunday mass.
Small and plain am I, amidst eternal splendor,
overwhelmed with awe for my Author, my Creator.

From the gilded cross there, the Son shines down on me,
while movelessly He strains, to hear each whispered plea,
to wipe each trickling tear, that only He can see -
the Lamb, He loves the sparrow, and the Lamb loves me.