In spires of stained glass, where light bends low,
The Precious Church of Jesus Christ stands tall—
A fortress woven from whispers of the past,
Threads of tradition, embroidered with gold.
Here, the organ hums hymns of harvest moons,
And altars gleam with relics, polished by hands
That trace lineages older than the sea.
But wait—does the Savior linger in the nave,
Or has He slipped behind the velvet drape?
The culture claims the front-row pews, adorned
In robes of ritual, crowns of custom worn
Like halos forged in fires of forgotten kings.
Echoes of emperors and councils convene,
Their voices drowning the Galilean’s plea:
“Follow me,” not the map of marble halls.
Oh, Precious Church, your stones sing of the soul’s
Salvation scripted in scrolls of solemn rite—
Yet where is the wanderer, the outcast’s friend,
The one who dined with sinners, mended the night?
The culture dances in the aisles, a masquerade
Of feasts and fasts, of flags and fervent cries,
While Jesus waits beyond the bolted gate,
His feet still dusty from the desert’s sighs.
Is it the edifice we exalt, or Him within?
The scaffold of saints, or the Carpenter’s grin?
For in the clamor of creeds and choral swell,
The culture reigns, a queen upon the throne—
And Jesus? He is the quiet cornerstone,
Rejected by builders, yet holding heaven’s spell.
Return, O flock, to the Lamb’s unyielding light;
Let culture bow, and Christ reclaim the night.
Passionately Pursuing Christ 