Lincoln Cathedral

Winter's piece was inspired by our program-wide trip to Lincoln on July 12th.

Saint Hugh of Lincoln and His Swan

I am alone and abandoned in this mute, forsaken place. Lonesome and lost, I walk past pillars (rather piles) of cold, heaps of stone. Light dimly streams through the holes in the giant, iron doors—I assume it will suffice. I kneel, quite dubious, in front of his shrine of gold and hope and wish and pray for matters. At once, I hear heavenly hymns that flutter with the dancing colors, coalescing to form the clandestine choir that entrances me with every tune and twinkle. For a moment I am not on Earth, I am consoled and consumed by the fanciful and fantastic that one cannot reach in reality. Music rings from each stone, like a magical music box.  As it rises from the golden pipes of the organ with the angelic song of the cherubs, my wounds are mended. For a moment, I feel a foreign
feel— it’s indescribable— as if a living and loving spirit dances within me. At once, I see him. The one who gave me such feeling. He is found, hidden yet coveted, in miraculous treasures that were once dull and opaque to my eyes. Each stained glass glows like a box of jewels—sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and pearls; a myriad of colors is reflected as if gem necklaces were scattered and strewn across a marble floor. He stands eternally still, adorned in a diaphanous diamond robe. His swan lies dutifully beside him, forever his protector and companion, whose coat resembles crystal orbs than white feathers and his beak of lambent amber than stiff yellow. 

At last, I finally understand. I could limp across the old cobblestones, the cracks with withering weeds, and he will give me the chance to stand. I could stagger through darkness with lampposts that dimly glow, and he will give me the light to see. I could miss the sounds of the people, the winds that whisper around me, and he will give me all to hear.

Cathedral Poem

As entering this magical location
I realize that we haven't changed in nature
Looking around, there are people, not only from one nation
Admiring the beauty of this cathedral like a shocked creature
'This is a beauty, a work of art'
They state with a sense of respect
Appreciating the early ages that were the start
For a way for people to connect
Sitting on a wooden bench
That had been with us for a while
You can see that humanity was through a stretch
That determined our current style.
In this place of worship and love
Time has stopped and waited with patience
For people to fit in it like a glove
And served for the, without impatience
In companies of others they come
To admire the colored light from high
That was created with many hands, not one
So they can get closer to the heavens in the sky
As you look up you can observe
How hands created such wonders, such art
It can calm you, the very last one of your nerves
Families come from all around
To teach their young
Without making a sound
To breath all the knowledge into their lungs.
The floors, tinted black and white,
Have shown many the ways
Of what's wrong and what's right
And hope that the sense stays.
As can be seen, people come
And people go hoping
And wishing to become
Someone that they see while dreaming.