On Babies that Cry in Church

After viewing this post from a friend on Facebook, I thought I'd write a poem about my feelings on the matter instead of just writing a paragraph.

Again, comments are welcome and most heartily desired. When I invite you to play in my virtual sandbox, it really makes me happy to have someone to talk to. Thanks.

The choir entered statio.

Two solemn lines of grey

In choral adoratio

Eight times a day they pray.

And every solemn hour

They come to bend their knee

And give the earth some power

To flee death’s tyranny.

In bright of day and dark of night

These consecrated sing.

To bring the others to their light

Their chapel bells they ring.

Once every week they open

Their chapel doors up wide

And bid the faithful enter

To worship at their side.

And every Sunday morning

A family shows up there

Rejoicing, not in mourning,

Their hearts and lives they share.

These faithful love the voices

And chanted monkish tones

They contemplate the choices

These men live in their bones.

And though these children savor

The sacred art they hear

They do add their own flavor

Of worship at the rear.

A humble father holding

His youngest child near

Knows not the world unfolding

But everyone will hear.

From lungs not bigger than a pear

He chants his sacred sounds

For all the people praying there

An earthly cry resounds.

While silent adoration

Engulfs God’s Holy Throne

This child gives donation

From depths before unknown.

In urgent supplication

For some need now supreme

This baby’s incantation

Will shatter pious dream.

An untrained voice commands now

Each ear within this place

Each person contemplates how

His cry goes out to space.

In his shrill declaration

This innocent now screams

Who grants him consolation

To his primordial dreams?

His mother. She takes him out

To give him what he wants.

His absence then creates a drought,

The silence almost taunts.

For his vociferation

Of urgent, primal need

Is but articulation

Common to Adam’s seed.

For in each person born to man,

A mother mediates

A woman gives us what she can

As father hesitates.

So this is our condition,

And in our lives we show,

That there is no perdition

Within the hearts that grow.

Each voice has his own glory

And brings from depths unknown

Supplying to the story

Played out before the Throne.

That practiced adorations

As well as primal screams

Both come from God’s creations

And prosper here our dreams.

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