The Stone Psalm

In fields where sheep once grazed in peace,

A vision grand begins to rise,

Foundation stones mark earth's release,

As faith reaches toward the skies.

The bishop's dream, on parchment drawn,

Now takes its form in mortar, rock,

From sunrise bright to twilight's dawn,

The workers toil around the clock.

The quarry groans with ceaseless work,

As stones are split from ancient beds,

In dust and din where shadows lurk,

The cutters bow their weary heads.

Each block is shaped with careful skill,

To fit its place in wall or arch,

From mighty base to window sill,

The cathedral's bones slowly march.

Woodsmen fell the forest tall,

Great oaks that stood for centuries,

Their trunks will form the vaulted hall,

Where prayers will rise on incense breeze.

The sawyers cut with blade so keen,

To shape the beams and buttress strong,

While joiners craft with vision keen,

The rafters that will last so long.

In workshops filled with clanging sound,

The blacksmiths forge both nail and hinge,

Their hammers ring the whole day round,

To bind the stone, make great doors swing.

The glaziers with their colored glass,

Create the windows' holy light,

Through which the sun's rays gently pass,

To paint the walls with visions bright.

Stone masons climb on scaffolds high,

Their chisels tap a constant song,

As gargoyles leer at passersby,

And saints in niches watch the throng.

The master builder paces slow,

His keen eye checks each line and curve,

For in this work there's much to know,

And from the plan they dare not swerve.

Year upon year the work goes on,

Through summer's heat and winter's chill,

From father down to grandson,

The labor passes, never still.

The town around it grows and thrives,

A marketplace of goods and trade,

The cathedral at its heart survives,

A testament to plans well laid.

Inside, the plasterers ply their art,

Smooth walls arise 'neath careful hand,

While painters with their color chart,

Bring scenes from scripture to command.

Gold leaf applied with finest brush,

Makes halos glow round holy heads,

In chapels where the faithful rush,

To kneel before their prayer beads.

The organ builder takes his place,

Installing pipes both great and small,

That soon will fill this sacred space,

With music rising wall to wall.

The choir stalls are carved with care,

Each misericord a world unseen,

Where creatures strange and fancies rare,

Peek out from leaves of oak so green.

At last the spire pierces sky,

A needle pointing heavenward,

Where swallows and the swifts now fly,

Around the cross so high preferred.

The bells are raised with strain and sweat,

To hang within the belfry tower,

Their voices soon will sing and set,

The rhythm of each passing hour.

Decades have passed since first stone laid,

And many hands have come and gone,

Yet still the work is not yet made,

Complete in every thoughtful tone.

For such a task is never done,

Each generation adds its mark,

From crypt below to towers won,

The cathedral grows from dawn to dark.

The bishop who first dreamed this sight,

Long sleeps beneath the chancel floor,

But others rose to push the height,

And width and breadth forevermore.

For in this edifice of prayer,

A city's hopes and fears are bound,

Its joys and sorrows rising there,

Where grace and beauty can be found.

And so it stands, this house of stone,

A testament to faith and skill,

To human hands that shaped each cone,

And vaulted ceilings, hushed and still.

The years may pass, the world may change,

But still the cathedral watches on,

A anchor in times strange,

From ancient dusk to future's dawn.

In every arch and chiseled face,

In every spire that meets the blue,

We read the story of a place,

Where dreams of heaven can come true.

And though we build with steel and glass,

Our towers reaching ever high,

This psalm of stone will ever last,

A bridge from earth to vaulted sky.