The Gate

Sunday, June 23rd, 2013: Traveling from Paris to Pierrefond, we stopped briefly in Noyon ~ Calvin's birthplace. As I walked into the cathedral, his cathedral for the first twelve years of his life, I was greeted with flying ceilings, cold stones, and musty smells. Beautiful.

Impersonal.

Empty.

Dead.

I re-emerged into sunlight, shining through the gate and the cobwebs of sadness in my mind, and I knew there were more chapters to this story than the one I had just read...

In fervor were the first stones laid,

A vision, sparked with passion, born.

Those who began would see no end,

But gave their eve for others' morn.

So slaved away a century,

And arches soared, as heaven-bound.

No passion, art, or beauty spared -

For this small church in hamlet-town.

Long-looked-for moment finally come,

The last day darkened, growing late,

While men of ages watched with tears

As a Cross was placed upon the gate.

How brief the moments to be found

When awe and praise are in their right!

For men have long grasped for the pow'r

That's due to One beyond our sight.

Thus, silks and satins swept the floors:

Dust off the stones, but in the soul.

As self-important knowledge hid

The truth from those within its hold.

Long-foreseen darkness come at last,

The Ignorant renounced the Great,

And turned their backs on all that awes.

Still the Cross stood guard above the gate.

Abandoned. Crumpling ages watch

The growing dirt, in plain sight now.

For even semblance of this form

Has been cast off, and no one bows.

No man, no king, no priest, no god

Will glory-hungry masses praise.

Becoming gods, men lost the great,

And shattered all they meant to raise.

And, yet, dear Providence, a Light,

Still flickers here, while Mercy waits,

For those to come who love the church,

Where a Cross stands still, above the gate.