Sepulcher Rings

Stone and rope,

a tower waiting,

not every hand

deserves the swing.

They came in twos and threes to try it,

pulled the rope just to hear it sound,

so we cut the rope

from the ones who came to try it,

coiled it high

where the bored can't reach.

Some bells stay un-rung on purpose,

some bells stay un-rung till it's true,

the tower keeps its own hour,

it rings when the work rings through.

Up in the loft

there's a clapper wired to itself,

no hand on the rope,

no crowd below,

it waits till the climb is finished,

the stair fully answered,

then it tolls once,

and the whole nave knows.

Quiet isn't empty.

A tower can hold a hundred bells

and still choose which one earns the air.

The truest peal was never the loudest one,

it's the one that only rings when it means it.

Some bells stay un-rung on purpose,

some bells stay un-rung till it's true,

let the quiet ones keep their silence,

the true bell always finds its hour.

Stone and rope, a tower resting,

the rope stays cut,

the hour still comes,

some bells stay un-rung on purpose,

until the one that means it,

hums.