At Grace Cathedral

At Grace Cathedral

by Gordon Edwards

(When the doors were opened)

The gray concrete majesty

of the great cathedral on the hill

dwarfed the pilgrims

who climbed the steep walkways

that lined the cable-whistled streets,

climbing Ararat to see

if the Ark still rested

on its craggy moor.

The white-haired cleric

leaned forward from his perch

with voice bounding from every

arch and columned trunk

"the work of God," he said,

"is to love the hell out of us"

--a life long work, no doubt.

Yet, in this hallowed hall

of terrifying pomp and feared misstep,

one wondered whether He was

here to scare the hell out

of us

as well.

But when the two men

standing to my right

unabashedly embraced

with echoes in their eyes,

it was clear

the doors of grace were opened,

like the fingers of fog

reaching over the hills,

hiding and revealing

the majesty of the tabernacle,

its hand wrapped around this

single pew, and touched the gray

tweed shoulder of the pilgrim,

and said to those who held

and watched,

no standing on this mount

save standing hand in hand.