Poem: T.S. Eliot, “Choruses from the Rock”

Who is this that has said: The house of God is a House of Sorrow, We must walk in black and go sadly, with longdrawn faces, We must go between empty walls, quavering lowly, whispering faintly,
among the few flickering lights?

They would put upon God their own sorrow, the grief they should feel for their sins and faults as they go about their daily occasions.

Yet the walk in the street proudnecked, like thoroughbreds ready for races, Adorning themselves, and busy in the market, the forum and all other secular meetings, Thinking good of themselves, ready for any festivity, doing themselves very well.

Let us mourn in private chamber, learning the way of penitence, and then let us learn the joyful communion of saints.