Psalm

In the hushed nave where morning light pools pale,
A psalm rises, soft as the sigh of summer rain,
Each line a thread of wool woven through the stone,
Binding the faithful to a quiet, steadfast hope.

The words, like old oak, stand firm against the wind,
Their rhythm a steady pulse beneath the vaulted ceiling,
A murmur that turns the cold marble warm,
Turning prayer into a psalm of flesh and spirit.

We chant in unison, voices trembling like leaves,
Finding in the ancient verses a familiar refrain,
A reminder that even in shadow’s longest stretch,
The Lord’s compassion colours our every breath.

So let the psalm linger, a gentle benediction,
Its verses a lamp that guides our wandering feet,
In every syllable, a promise renewed,
That love, like a psalm, endures through all seasons.