A Poem on Abbotswick House


No cloistered convent this,

Where rustling kirtled Nuns their days 
Spend lost in prayer or sing in praise
and fill the air with sweet Ave’s.
No cloistered convent this.

No monastery this.
Where dark cowled monks walk deep in thought,
far from a world that sets at naught
the lesson that the Saviour taught.
No monastery this.

A house of prayer is this.
And, as you step inside the door,
Around you press the prayers, and more,
The dreams of those who’ve gone before.
A house of prayer is this.

A house of peace is this.
The world outside pays it no heed,
But it is there for those who need
To sit and pray, or quietly read.
A house of peace is this.

A house of love is this.
Like summer sunshine after rain,
It soothes the heart and eases pain,
Then softly whispers “come again”.
A house of love is this.

W. Noone – November 2000

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