. . .that which is sought transcends all knowledge,
being separated on all sides by incomprehensibility
as by a kind of darkness
~Gregory of Nyssa
Light through the grisaille illuminates
Omega on the shabby wooden altar.
What we’ve called “God”
or something like, is disappearing
into a cloud of galaxies
and unanswered prayer, or devolving
into fire and air and trees.
Some of us are here, bound in ritual.
Who knows what we believe?
Some of us have been around outside
and turned, or turned back,
hearing the echo of a name.
We murmur the ancient creed.
The psalms are full of mercy and blood.
Angels have descended and grown small,
their voices turned to syrup, or tin.
Shall we yet fear not?
A dead Jesus hangs on his cross,
between the guttering candles.
The cup is emptied and filled.
We make our humble offerings to the dark.