A Prayer Poem by Sheila Sharpe

Centuries shift in the blink of
a Creator's eye
Somewhere secret
is a holy manuscript
In which the word is writ
But all the prayers and psalms
All the chants, the hymns of praise
All of the gold and frankincense,
All of the Myrrh
All of the holy relics
That in gilded caskets lie
Cannot erase the lessons
That have remained unlearned
For, through all the centuries gone by
The Popes, the priests, the magi
In each of rich and holy guise
Have not yet the wisdom to realise
Nor to ask who pays?
Still the world is too much held in thrall
And no single religion
Can civilise all
Who will pay?
To whom should all the myriad faithful pray?