Empty Church. Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The screen lights up, a question there,
'Why church feels empty, thin of air? '
A meme it is, a whispered plea,
Why folks drift off, for all to see.

Not lost their faith, that's often true,
But the church itself feels askew.
The leaders stumble, words don't match,
A hollow echo, a closing latch.

The songs are sung, the prayers are said,
But the heart feels hungry, spirit unfed.
Ritual trumps a loving hand,
In this stiff garden, souls disband.

The whispers sting, a judging eye,
No welcome here, just reasons why
You don't quite fit, you don't quite gleam,
Shattered hopes, a fading dream.

The clock ticks fast, a busy race,
Work calls out loud, in time and space.
'Too busy, ' sighs the weary soul,
To find that peace, to make them whole.

A need for real, a truthful quest,
Young hearts now yearn for something best.
Not gilded words, or shallow show,
But love that blooms, and helps things grow.

The coins clang loud, a business call,
More tithes demanded, for one and all.
But spirit shrinks, feels bought and sold,
A story told, that's growing old.

So Sunday comes, and church bells chime,
But empty seats mark passing time.
A question hangs, unanswered still,
How to refill the sacred hill.


T.M.Solvang