in Stephen’s Green

In this place where dead soldiers are commemorated in brass
I sit and contemplate its sacred past.
All eyes are on the pulpit. More Victorian Gothic.
In the first pew, the hymnals, stacked like stone,
are long untouched. Their redundance is plain.

In this place of unity and adoration
I imagine its busy days of morning service,
Evening prayer, Sunday school and Thanksgiving.
I wonder how many souls have passed through here.
Have sung and prayed for mercy and salvation.

In this place of asymmetrical corners,
founded by heretical dissenters, all are equally welcome
to share their unity of faith in the hope of new beginnings.
As I rise to leave, I am reminded of all the dead soldiers,
commemorated on these cold walls.

John Saunders