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Never Lost by Lelia Thomas

Wood of fine rowan to keep her strong;
Stone from the Isle of Green so she may live long;
Flowers of gold to shower sunlight;
Flowers of purple to bring delight;
A walkway edged with glowing green;
A grand oak to protect that which is seen;
Seven stained glass windows to glorify His name;
Seven candles within to bring alight His eternal flame;
A sword upturned to represent the wood which was crossed;
A shield with the Crown of Thorns to remind us of that cost;

My friend of soft eyes and a benevolent heart to advise;
My heart to be strong so this grand place never dies.
There will be much persecution and pain;
There will be many tears from where I have lain.
My right hand to have strength to stay pure and holy;
My left hand to have wisdom to remain humble and lowly.
My eyes to stay focused even to old age;
My voice to carry words true and sage.
May those who will follow find His voice in their hearts crystal clear;
May those who will follow never know the pang of fear.

For her wood is aging but it is strong;
For her stone is aging but she is living long;
For her flowers of gold are long since gone;
For her flowers of purple are now withered and drawn;
For her walkway is decimated, faded and brown;
For her grand oak tree is dying and bending down;
For her seven windows are broken and cracked;
For her seven burning candles to fire no longer react;
For her sword that represented the cross is now stolen;
For her shield that reminded us of that cost is now weather-eaten and swollen;

For my friend that was there to advise long since has he descended to the dust;
For my heart which was strong no longer knows trust;
For there was much pain in those times;
For there were many tears that stroked my cheeks in graceful lines;
For my right hand gave way to the world;
For my left hand forgot the truth and my evil ways unfurled;
For my eyes did subtly stray;
For my voice did fail to pray.
For those that followed would not listen;
For those that followed let fear to take hold until tears did glisten.

But it still stands.
Groaning with age, but held with ancient, scarred hands.
I see now it was never my own strength that held her or saw her through;
There was more to the story, for though she’s tired, her hope shines anew.
She’s battered by my worldly ways,
But with His hands she stands and stays,
Never lost in this world’s worldly maze.

Details

This 2002 poem may seem like it’s about the strength of a church/temple, which, in part, it is. More so, however, it is about how no matter what is done to a faith’s physical remains, much of the beliefs still stay strong.