The Church Of The Dolls

Doors of such common pine 

Knotted and dull 

Yet stained to a cry of mahogany 

Held a glimpse of what to find 

Beyond the threshold 

Just inside

Carpet of burgundy wine 

And walls of crispest white 

The pews of deepest ebony 

Like shadows in the night 

The cross to thin 

In their eyes 

To hold their sins 

And bear such shame 

Porcelain and rose 

Was the painted faces 

Of such cold alabaster 

And linen bedsheets the robe 

Of the mannequined pastor 

Silken flowers on an altar

Covered in dust 

Not lilies of the field 

But manmade blooms 

Knit and cut

By hands of rust 

The Psalters and the advent wreath 

Old testament words 

And the Kyrie 

All said so flawlessly 

Agnus Dei and Doxology 

And the dolls

Yet ever in such Christmas finery 

Shivered in their cold 

While Heaven's warmth streamed 

Through painted glass 

No joy was in the eyes of stone 

Nor warmth in the cheeks 

Of mold and sculpt 

Nothing but the creases of worry 

So permanently etched 

Forgot they the words that were said 

Of sparrows and flowers 

Here today and then dead 

Of greatest love and peace all surpassing 

Replaced by silence 

And clockwork glancing 

How long an hour feels 

In the dollhouse 

For a beating heart 

How loud it is 

In the silence of rhythmic noise 

But how precious the escape 

Through the same mahogany doors

And down the steps 

That had been so impossible to climb 

In the different time before 

Yet sweeter than the freedom 

Is the choice to glance back

Though fleeting through the tinted glass 

And to pray for the dolls 

To find their life again 

O Fairest Lord 

May they trust in Him-

No shame in life 

Nor death in sin