The spire and the roof collapsed,
But at least no body died.
Stained glass melted from the heat
and priceless works of art besides.
Our Lady is open to the sky;
Her tabernacle desecrated.
A treasure of man’s faith is gone.
Can such be recreated?
An aged curate walks her aisles
Whose walls hold echoes of men’s prayers.
He looks upon bare ruined choirs
and fights back feelings of despair.
“We will rebuild” the Father thinks
as the heated stones grow cold.
“We lift our hearts up to the Lord
Who paid the ransom for our souls.”