In the fading of my faith,
I ask how you became my church,
the true religion of my heart.
The hurt of you was all I had,
all I could hold close, believing
in your return, our resurrection.
I've not renounced this priesthood, no,
not yet; I'll watch the failing flame
of each candle lit to you.
I'll watch them fade, one by one,
and only then shall I turn from
your darkened altar, resurrected,
for all beginnings need an end.
Stephen Brooke ©2004