The Angelus Bell

The Angelus Bell


The Angelus bell is silent now
the tongue torn from the root
the mouth agape in horror
at the bestial pursuit.

Once it sounded contemplation,
quietude and prayer,
The Spirit sang through open fields,
the town and market square.

The temple doors now barred and bolted
the congregations withered, gone
sacred sounds soon dissipate in
doof doof gym beat doofalong

The Burning Bush is a feature now
in rockery and shrub
with gnomes and plastic Moses,
Mary, Joseph and The Bub.

The exposition of the host
of
clergy,
daily it seems
like a dream
inversed:
Spit them out so, spit them out...,
all
Out the Judas cursed.

Of all the gifts that Heaven sent
the Kingdom of God within
gave to the poorest of the poor
love's solace from unholy law

My people are betrayed
again
I rout your altars
and scourge
your
temples,
mud and straw, mud and straw
never needed
evermore

the Angelus bells are silent now
the call of the faithful departed
cracked and broken they bleed
with hurt, my sacred broken hearted.

But blessed be the poor in spirit
and mercy be Thy name
Judge not for aye you will be judged
when the horsemen ride again

the desert eyes are opened wide
I stride through flaming sand
my feet are fired in the pot
my head is in my Father's hand

my head is in my Father's hand
to crush, Thy Will be done
oh my Father's mould be mine
I am your poor and lowly son

I see the temples time has built
such artifice of shame
a temple of my heart on fire
is all that shall remain

the god you made to your design
no sign could have foretold
my simple and my purest words
consigned so manifold

writ this bright and bloody sky
my name as one divine
those flags aloft and banners high
fluttering slaughter benign...

such sorrow rang out in my name
such horror hurrah drums aflame
such demon dancing sound from hell
such a rock filled wishing well

the desert eyes are opened wide
my feet are charred with words afire
grain revealed in a tree of truth
set in a blue and furnace sky

The angelus bells are silent now
as silent as the white faced moon
as silent as the blood that seeps
from history's unholy wound.

(c) Barry McGloin 2011