by Willow Thompson
Out of the ashes of Rome, I rose,
And though it seems my supports are but glass
So have I stood in midnight ages past.
Consolation was not denied, to defenseless child and deserted poor;
Welcomed at my door were the weak and sick and sore.
Yet I, tall testament of truth,
Even I, fortress for faith,
Must kneel to the heat of a single spark.
Steeples served as swords,
Gargoyles purged plague,
All now crumble and decay.
As my bells have rung,
So in my ears they ring,
Those last lines
Angels sweetly sing,
Final hymn of the Mass of Palms, The Sabat Mater,
Last, though no other knew.
Hear my cry with theirs, Gentle Lady!
“In flame and set on fire,
May I be defended by you Virgin.”
Though a haven of hope is now a heap,
Look up even so to see, the ash of death on me,
So too shall you be.