Every night
We would pray in your home
I knew not about God
But I knew the sounds leaving your throat
And I would utter them in accordance
Now the pews, the altars
The stained glass, the hymns
I drink it all in
For they are all about you
Never about God
I was the bearer of the ring upon your finger
And in tears
The blessing they received
Was in the palm of my hand
The hand you held when you lead the prayer
You’re weak now, weaker than I could know
Yet you push through
Your thorns will cut my skin
But my skin will heal
And my love will be all that remains