The old stones of a rock wall;
Little left there standing at all.
An old wooden door,
And a window no more;
Yet it stands so proud and tall.
What stories would it now tell?
What history could it spell;
Of when it lived on,
Standing full and strong;
And of what harm it befell?
Now a doorway to the past;
A picture that didn’t last.
It stands all alone,
A shrine or a throne;
A relic in shadowed past.
On the Wings of Angels 