Warship

On Friday nights, we join as one to pray,
To wish the world would be a better place
And as we do, we constantly retrace
The wishes of a distant yesterday.
We pray in words that we have learned to say
By rote, hoping that eternal grace
Forgives the syllables we will misplace
Hearing our hearts, and what we would convey.
And as we do it, we cannot forget
There is an officer next to the door
Protecting us from those we have not met
Who pray themselves that we should pray no more.
We lock our doors, to my profound regret:
The space of peace should not be rigged for war.