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.