Went to church today.
A sanctuary of a few sitting
and spread out at the pews
in front and behind me.
A man at the left corner
of the platform sits well clad
in front of an organ
with two large, slim hymn books
opened as his fingers
flawlessly move across keys.
The sound
of the organ.
I wonder if the angels
of heaven are listening.
I wonder if all this isn’t just noise
to their ears. They know
what music is. How can we compare?
Surely, we cannot. They know
what solemnity sounds like.
Can our very best ever match
what goes on in the realm of bliss?
Not a sound of voices, the organ
continues to play without a rival.
The assembly is still. The organist
switches from one hymn page
to another—a potpourri
of classics from centuries past.
Does heaven have anything to say about
what’s going on here at that organ?
Are the angels drawn? Are we one?
I believe in graciousness. Heaven
knows mercy like a parent listening to a child
doing their best to perform, not always quite right
nor can ever meet the highest place of finality,
but receives audience and approval, I hope.
An offering. A tender
offering from a place of innocence.
Not so much a thunderous utterance from above.
Wonder if we could endure one anyway.
It isn’t how heavy we enter in,
but how light we walk out
to meet daylight
and the hustle and bustle.
