Somehow it claims us, this rectangle of land,
insisting its kinship.
Its felicity is not in its exterior,
the unadorned bland.
Its face to the street is unremarkable
but for the bronze figures you meet getting off the bus,
and the recent modest roundel asserting a city’s interest.
And yet it draws us, the house,
we belong to it.
The house beckons us
to listen to the murmuring of its beams
to await its revelations
through floor, stone and wood
and the light infused, rainwept glass.
By its lintels and spaces we are defined,
our DNA is in the dust fallen between floorboards.
We may think we come as observers,
but in truth we are observed-
observed with a kind scrutiny,
measured by mercy,
measured for mercy.
Why is this house sacred?
Because here God’s grace met human disposition,
here God’s eloquence met human effort
and sparks flew,
fire found a purpose.
And we, we are kindred, kindled, flame.
Baggot St Suite: Somehow It Claims Us
Mercy Heritage
