Dean Jocelin looked to the sky,
Where clouds like smoke did drift and flee.
“God called to me,” he gave a sigh,
“To build a spire for all to see.
Four hundred feet of stone and grace,
To point the way to heaven’s face.”

Old Roger Mason shook his head,
And looked upon the shifting floor.
“The ground is soft as clay,” he said,
“The ancient pillars hold no more.
There are no deep foundations here,
To bear a weight that mocks our fear.”

But Jocelin tuned his hearing out,
To songs that only angels sing.
He silenced every rising doubt,
And drove the heavy hammers’ ring.
“The spire shall rise! The work must stand!
Held up by God’s sustaining hand.”

The pillars groaned, the arches wept,
As higher grew the heavy crown.
While all the town in terror slept,
The dust and mortar drifted down.
The master mason cursed the sky,
Yet climbed the scaffolding on high.

A plague of lust and sickness grew,
And blood was spilled upon the floor.
Good Pangall fled the bitter crew,
To walk the silent aisles no more.
Yet Jocelin watched with burning eyes,
And offered up his sacrifice.

He sacrificed the joy of men,
The truth of stone, the peace of mind.
He drove the workers time again,
To all but his great vision blind.
A demon whispered in his ear,
Entwined with holy, desperate fear.

At last the topmost stone was laid,
The spire pierced the shaking air.
But in the dark, the dreamer prayed,
And saw the ruin of his prayer.
The pillars bowed like broken trees,
Before the howling winter breeze.

Upon his bed of sickness cast,
The shattered Dean began to see:
The spire built to brave the blast
Was born of pride and vanity.
“It’s like a spire,” he gasped for breath,
“And like a phallus, bringing death.”

The structure swayed against the gale,
A monument of faith and sin.
A grand design, so thin and frail,
Reflecting all the rot within.
The spire stood, a lonely cry,
Between the mud and silent sky.