Beneath a vault of saffron, molten skies,
Where tempests hush to silk, a gospel sways,
Its roots unmoored from rugged timber’s cries,
A wreath of lilies crowns its bloodless days.

The cross, once hewn from gnarled and groaning oak,
Draped scarlet with the veins of heaven’s Lamb,
Now gleams as alabaster, chipped and cloaked,
A muted relic carved by mortal sham.

Through prismed panes, a fractured brilliance spills,
Where once a spear’s dark gash rent mercy’s side,
Now dulcet harps trill soft o’er emerald hills,
Yet worms gnaw deep where rootless vines abide.

So droops the faith in progress’ burnished glare,
A hollow chant—no thorns, no savior there.