Within the organ loft above the rest,
Beside my daughter bringing harmony
With hands and feet and graceful dexterity,
To farmers and their wives, doing their best
To praise the Lord, whom they all believe
Is glad, their singing to receive
And lost in thought through formal praise
And Nicene creed,
And watching play of light on white-washed walls,
I gradually perceive
An angel stain, a fitting thing indeed.
She kneels in supplication and her wing
Rises behind her brown and ochre halo.
And not through ritual, but at this sight
My mind is calmed sufficiently to bring
About a fitting state for prayer.
Until, that is, I start to turn the experience
Into poetry,
And remember that the only word that rhymes
With the one describing the light around an angel,
Is the Composer, Ola Gjelo
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