Angels at Dawn

This is the crucible,
this tiny church where the choir sang
from ancient Windsor chairs
and the pews are dark with age,

where hymns have risen for generations
and where you began to understand
that God lived less in textbooks than hearts.

And so this is where you return,
when you no longer feel the faith,

only live in it, acting in a trust you do not feel.

Acting in that trust
despite all appearances to the contrary,

despite the scars of patience,
and the welts on your heart,
you act as if

your belief is strong.
For that is faith at it’s most real,
at it’s most tender and vulnerable, as it waits
for angels to sing with the dawn.

About this poem

We don’t always feel faith. But sometimes, when we really believe, we act on it anyway. Scary stuff.

The picture is of Carsley United Methodist Church.

Tom