The Grievances Of the Priest

The cold of night dances upon his skin so pale and so white,
His weak bones and wrinkled flesh illuminate in the evening light,
His mind is full of troubles,
His heart is full of strain,
There is no one he can turn to,
Not a living soul who is not vain,

A troubled priest goes to pray,
Pray, pray, his troubles away

He walks the city streets,
Searching for his home,
The place he truly belongs,
The only place he’s not alone
His breaths are heavy and his steps are slow,
He’s not the young preacher you used to know

Turning a corner his weary eyes,
Finally see the doors insight,
With a mighty pull and a heavy breath,
The wood creeks open and in he steps

His footsteps echo against the walls,
Oh how they ring throughout the hall,
The bells are swinging in their tower,
But the priest walks past until another hour,
He folds his hands in reverence yet,
Bows his head and recites their debts,
All of which they have confessed,
Souls hoping to be blessed,
A troubled priest goes to play,
Play, play, their troubles away

He comes upon the pipes so cold,
Resting, sleeping in their mold,
He presses his boney flesh to the keys,
They obey his touch and cease to sleep,
His fingers rest against the note,
And so the sound began to float,
Through the towers and around the bells,
A story it starts to tell,
The story of the poor priest’s grief,
The reason why he feels so weak,

Past the altar, and around the candles,
The music begins to climb,
Through the windows and out the door,
To the streets he’s left behind,

But one is there listening.
To all the priest has said,
Listening in a box of gold,
Never resting his head,
He’s heard his troubles and his grief,
And so does reward his tale,
He took the burden from his head,
Gave him no reason to weep or wail,
For as he lifted the sadness from his heart,
His eyes began to fail,

A tired priest can now sleep,
Sleep, sleep, ‘til morning peeks