The Fourth Window
by Charlie Morgan
The morning sun used to shine through majestic stained glass, to dance magically on
the pews as if to set the wood afire, while little ones would gleefully try to capture the
colors, if only for a moment.
Yet the fourth window remains.
Sounds as if Angels voices would swell from the grand pipes, as an artisan gifted by
the Almighty brought to life what only moments ago had been dead air.
And the fourth window remains.
There were voices here, cascading in crescendo sounding as water in white foam
rapids sings to whomever should pass by,
While the fourth window remains.
Lives were touched here, bonds in the sight of the Heavenly Father, beginnings and
endings, which are really the start of the Great Adventure, for those who have chosen
Still the fourth window remains.
The quiet, and the weeds are stark. The paint gone along with the pews and the pipes,
add to the desolation, yet the beauty is buried deep within the framework. A silent
sentinel, the bell in his tower stands ever watching, perchance for the people to
return to the once beautiful sanctuary, now empty and littered.
As the fourth window remains.
You see, there are three other windows.
Two, marred by the indecency of brokenness, show only decay and its fruit, ugliness.
One, gone entirely, is counted with others as a panel of wood, darkness where once
light existed. But the fourth window is different, its cleanness an enigma to its
existence. The interior of its room is not as the rest, as all looks new. And on the wall,
behind the fourth window, framed by oak that shines as gold in the sun, on paint that
cannot be fresh, yet seems so, hangs a portrait of the Saviour.
A message is spoken silently, "and the Light shines in the darkness."
One feels He is waiting.
Perhaps for you?