By Deacon Joseph - Melbourne, Australia - 1 March 2014



Though the chant sounds the root of creation

And the incense rises to heaven,

Though I am enfolded by the beauty,

This is not my prayer.


Though the light shines on golden domes

And on the deep starry blue

Of the curtains of heaven,

I am a stranger here.


Though great minds have worked here,

Though great hearts have loved here,

Though great souls have prayed here,

These are not my people.


Though the sun is golden in the autumn birch

And a path wanders away to great,

To unknown, and to wild things,

This is not my country.


There is blood here and great pain,

And sorrow soaked into the very ground,

That falls with the rain,

But it is not mine.


Again I reach for my pilgrim staff

And leave the simple wooden church

To seek once more the dust

Of the weary road --


Only I am clothed now in blue and gold,

And trail the memory of silence

And dreams of glory.

These, at least, I own.