Our Holy Places

By Andrew R. Duckworth

Some go to Mass and then rush out,
Like the deer fleeing the wolves,
Becoming comfy when they reach home.

Some go to Mass and never leave,
A soul permanently tied to the pew,
Never thinking of the soul on the street.

Some sit through service for hymns,
A heart lifted by music and the voice,
But stop when the music ends.

Some sit through service for a word of wealth,
With thoughts of hoping for worldly gain,
Thinking it somehow heals the pain.

Some go through the world in discovery,
Like a small child fixated on a shiny surface,
But give up when the times get hard.

Some make their way through the woods,
Marveling at nature and surroundings,
But flee when bears wake from slumber.

Some stay fixated on a screen,
Waiting for more news to hit,
Waiting for more news to hit.

Some go out with a message of hope,
Not knowing what tomorrow will bring,
But, in faith, seeing value in blessing.

Lord, make me like the latter.
Lord, make me like the latter.
Lord, make me like the latter.