A Church Still Being Formed

Before the Church had shaped its creed,
a Roman singer dreamed:
a child would come, the iron cease,
and earth grow green, redeemed;
later believers heard that song
as more than Virgil dreamed.

Then temple, synagogue, and street
grew strained through loss and fear;
what Rome had counted one at first
grew separate year by year;
and words from wounded, severing days
would darken later years.

They met the court, the lash, the beasts,
the prison’s iron breath;
Perpetua held her child and name,
then walked the road to death.
I will not make her suffering sweet,
nor make her courage less.

They lived as citizens and guests,
not claiming rank or right;
they tended sick, received the poor,
and carried care through night;
some fasted so another ate—
their faith became a light.

And women stood within these tales—
Thecla, Perpetua named;
Felicitas beside her friend,
their courage unashamed;
yet honour did not halt the years
when patriarchy gained.

Then edicts changed; the prison door
gave way to public prayer;
the seized assembly-rooms returned,
and worship opened there;
the hunted Church now met the throne—
a gift, and weight, to bear.

They argued Athens, Jerusalem,
the sword, the state, the school;
some welcomed wisdom where it grew,
some feared its borrowed rule;
the ancient Church was not one voice—
nor history one school.

So canon, creed, succession grew
as rival claims arose;
four Gospels kept their differences,
no single voice imposed;
against the claims of secret truth,
apostolic witness rose.

Then councils weighed the words of faith—
true God, true man, one Son;
they argued how to guard the Name
of what in Christ was done.

I do not find a golden age
untouched by fear or sword;
I find a Church still being formed,
still answerable to the Lord.