by Aidan Andrew Dun
A praise song and a blessing song.
I walked along a London street when the One God in early spring was smiling, passing a building-site where figures were running up and down ladders in the sun, whistling at pretty women walking below. I saw nothing out of the ordinary, just a busy scene of builders – carpenters, bricklayers and apprentices – all going about their work with a will.
I walked on, oblivious, toward some trivial destination. Then, for no reason, looked back over my shoulder.
Now the ladders were scaled by winged angels carrying news from world to world, escorting souls through pure light; now the rooftop was blazing on high like some golden throneroom. The workers were singing and I caught their melodies and their words.
Here, in This House, is a faint echo of that music.