From the ashes of the dead, new life is born
And hope will rise like the sun on Easter morn
The same fire that ravages, gives warmth and light
The same fire that destroys, on a candle, is a welcome sight
We will rise again on the wings of the dawn
We will dance with the joy of a newborn fawn
It is a chance to rebuild, restart, and renew
To see what beauty lies hidden from view
From out of the ashes, we will rise again
We say: "Let it be done" Amen
From the crucible of fire, we will survive
Having been purified, we will now thrive
The loss is real, but it mustn't feel
Like the end. It is a brand-new start
And the memory will remain here in our hearts
I truly believe that out of the ashes we will find
Evidence of something profoundly divine
That in its wake there will come a grand revival
An awakening of faith that will have no rival
There will be a day of great jubilation
Where people will come from every nation
To join hands and hearts as sister and brother
Where peace resides and we love one another
From these ashes, I pray we will remember
That life is fleeting, and life is a treasure
But we will rise above the ashes and dust
To find something in which we can trust

And while Notre Dame burns
Conspiracy theorists rewrite history
On their terms.

You who have lifted up your sunburned face,
Long-told of peasant warmth and the forest tableaux.
Barefoot, you brought the book of hours upon dusty roads,
Ungoverned, little flower from Jeanne to Lourdes to Lisieux.
Our Lady, osculum pacis, the kiss of peace in wood and stone.

Burned out to those dusty eyes,
Now-empty look of rosework from the forest-fall of sunlight.
Medieval prayer, earthly-dim to its rafters of oak,
Come un-cinctured in ashen cloud of amice and alb,
And the murine blackness of plague-like smoke.

Birds that sit blinking at the winged fossil of intrados,
Pipe air through your own ribbed vaults, organum pulse.
Let the city rise in your vining voices—and hold the note.
The great ***** intones from the runs and pedal stops,
Along the turbid streets of the rue de la Cité to the empire of catacombs.

Beside his candle, the monk in sadness knows
All loveliness of heaven except his own.
Our Lady, every sunset is your faded candle hour of peace, for us to know.
Holy Father, so passes worldly glory,
Over the roofs of Paris like fire-scorned and leaden wings.

Notre Dame Burns
Jerusalem Obliterated
Raised in Three Days
Yet Persists Wars and Bitter Hatred

The angels are falling
They burn like Icarus
Falling from above
The building below
It looks like it will collapse
My eyes full of tears
The start of this sacred week
Begins with the flames of a fire
It takes out an important symbol
But things are saved and stored
The angels though they've fallen
Still guard what they've guarded for years
Though in doing so they were burned
Still here I sit waiting for better news
Tears finally falling

When the cinders cool and the answer seekers
pick their way through the charred rubble
what will they find? A medieval carpenter's chisel, a pair of rosary beads, pigeon droppings, the down from an angel's wing, the tears of saints.