Holy the liturgy spoken and sung – 
as music patterns water molecules
sipped from a crystal glass, this place

and its prayers choreograph my thoughts,
my blood-cells, and the soul within – 
Holy the light that quivers on the pulpit,

(brimming with its homily of silence) – 
my gaze is half-aware of angels
hovering over the shoulders of the faithful.

A bright gleam settles on the cross
like a ghostly butterfly, knowing
where the yield is sweet. I rise

as organ chords swell like thick curls
of incense. Holy the hour that is done – 
and the new life now begun.