In the Hall of God

I see my faith in pieces,

Like so many shattered porcelain teacups

That were once perfect in form and function.

I weep for the lost wholeness.

Or I would, if I could remember how they looked before they fell.

Buy my memory is weak.

I have a sense of grace, now long departed,

And of surety, of a thing complete.

I wonder if I’ll ever get those pieces put back together,

Or if I will be forever cutting myself

On the sharp edges

Of a childlike, beautiful faith.

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