When I was yet young, I thought the cathedral of Sevilla, the city of my birth, to be the most beautiful creation of man upon the Earth. The grand solemnity of stone, the graceful arcing flow of her lines, the radiant glory of the vidrio de colores, the deep silence of the evening after Mass, the holy profundity of expanse. There was the sighing music of organs, most holy and chilling instruments that breathed like living things, and the joy of voices raised together in praise, balanced against the deep intonation of the Padre. Scents of warmth, of wax, of stone and the dust of many feet. The sea breeze sighing through the sun-warmed courtyards. Kneeling in the sanctuary, knowing humility, learning patience - one sensed and more than sensed the omnipotence of the Spirit there.

But now, in place of arching marble heights I behold these tattered sails, and in place of a spire reaching to the blue glory of the firmament I behold a splintered mast, almost lost in the constant fog. Instead of the reassurance of warmth, the pain of burning. Ashes of flesh, not of palm. In place of holy chanting, the vacant cry of long-dead seabirds, a futile calling from empty throats and disintegrated form. My mind and soul reels from what lies before my eyes, from what has befallen our captain, our crew, our ship, my body, and still greater fear fills me, that the corruption goes deeper than the flesh, unto a decay of the soul and damnation.

But still I remember the cathedral, her sense of eternal peace. Still I remember the grace of the Latin echoing through the columns, grace in form and message. I remember and I pray and I entreat that the prayer will be heard through the smoke and ruin of our sin, that we are not yet cast out beyond recall, in this realm of haze and agony somewhere past the border of life.

Cover image: Caspar David Friedrich's Das Eismeer, edited for atmosphere.