Where is that Majesty we fell beneath?
It is never enough, the gleanings of a
Wondrous bounty to which we are arriving too late

As if I have not saved quite enough to be allowed entry,
Rich heartwood doors are closing on silent hinges
They are polished and waxed, and smell of lemon oil

I know instinctively that some few are born inside those halls
Arraigned before gods with the best examples of wooden vessels,
They disembark to walk among us, innocent and perfect

What will we have without their icons?
Without doing?  Doing without.
Perhaps make our own lowly resentful god, jagged and jealous.