Other People's Sanctuary 

Some have found the holiest they know 
   in a fold of the sky or in a fall of the land. 
Some have needed the uterine   quiet of caves 
  some the elvan furtiveness of sacred groves. 
Some the solemn and soaring majesty of cathedral 
  punctuated by filtered colours of glass, 
  by steady candle flame and tinkle of little bells. 
Some have centred their souls in the sacred word 
   of holy script and in the deeper scripture of the heart. 

Let our meditation encompass peoples 
  that we may share the shape of their devotion 
  and from them find our own way of reverence. 

In Egypt, where the Nile in drought or flood 
  cleaves inhospitable sand, 
  priests wooed immortality and found its symbol 
  in a golden solar disc. 
In India, where great rivers run from eternal snows, 
  men found serentiy as time flowed from them, 
  and offered marigold on the lingam of fertility. 
In China, where the dust of ageless winds 
  has filled the valleys with fertile soil, 
  men remember many dynasties, 
  and touch the jade of lovely things. 
In high Tibet, where winds have howled 
  interminably across the riven plateau, 
  holy ones have sat in stillness 
  to seek the Buddha of diamond clarity. 
In Sinai, in the fierce thrust of nomad life, 
  men heard a voice of command and know not 
  whether it came from the smoke of dancing rocks, 
  or from their hungry minds. 
In Arabia, where watering-places are few 
  and merchandise is mixed with mystery, 
  they hear the voice of one that calls, 
  "Come ye to prayer; come ye to the Good; 
  Brethren under one sky." 
In Galilee, where lake reflects quiet hills 
  and quieter voices, they heard, 
  "Launch out into the deep." 
In a timeless city set on seven hills, 
  "Upon this Rock will I build my Church." 

The ways of holiness are many; 
Man that travels along them, 
Shall one day learn to kneel 
Each in his brother's sanctuary. 

My Own Place 

Whatever has opened my eyes and made disclosure 
  of a portion of the world for me, 
I will remember and make a shrine of it. 
  a word of poetry touching the secret heart; 
  a song for ever linked to friendly faces; 
  a gesture laying to rest embarrassment; 
  a thought reaching to the centre. 
I bear the ark of my covenant with me. 
It compels none other to make a formal sacrifice, 
  but only me, and my offering is light -- 
  to let no day pass without a pinch of incense. 

Whatever has touched my solitude 
and revealed another's soul within the silhouette, 
I will remember and make a prayer of it. 
  a mother's warm embrace, a father's unspoken assent, 
  a child's handclasp of trust, 
  a lover's silence, a companion's narrative, 
   a neighbour's hail-farewell, a stranger's glance. 
I hear the litany within my body's swing 
and repeat the prayer with every stride. 
It is no vain repetition, 
for each turn and step add fresh line to it. 

Whatever has reached the    deepest layers of my thought 
  and given me another world in which to live, 
I will remember and make a bible of it 
  a full night of stars and constellations traced, 
  a jovial wind tearing holes and tatters in the cloud, 
  a flight above unlinked  necklaces of towns by night, 
   a climb on rocks by the rope of comradeship, 
  well-uttered oratory and harmony of many voices, 
  clean-trimmed argument, 
  the patient method of experiment, 
  a good tale with the humour and ring of truth. 
I bear my scripture between soft bindings, 
its pages open where they will. 
It has no genesis and no apocalypse, 
but contains my numbers and my song of songs. 

My temple is the place of my choosing 
  and holds more than shining symbol. 
It preserves the garnering and gleanings 
  of schoolboy classrooms and college coffee tables. 
It surrounds my senses with  unholy songs, 
    with colour and with quietness. 
It informs forgetfulness of minor virtues 
  but leaves the major imperatives to me.