In sacred silence, icons stand,
Windows to the Promised Land.
By painted prayers, this holy art,
Beckons forth the faithful heart.
From ancient wisdom, colors bold,
Their hallowed truths to us unfold.
The love that ripped the veil abides,
Echoes through these portals wide.
The spiritual realm in earthly hue,
Holy glimpses of the true.
The saints left Earth, but are not gone,
They live to meet the eschaton.
Below, our realm in material haze,
A furtive screen before our gaze.
Shrouded glass of melted sand,
Acts as mirror in homes and hands.
Pixels dance across the plane,
Entrancing charm, attention claimed.
But as we peer into this glass,
We find a lure that shadows cast.
A mirror masked as lighted space,
Reflects our image, each embrace.
Passively staring, our visage we find,
The flame of passion makes us blind.
No glimpse of heaven, only reflection,
Drowning souls in ego's affection.
Like fruit forbidden, the screen allows,
Our souls to eat, and break their vows.
Obscure the truth, ignite the flame,
Screens designed, our souls to claim.
The only hope, our only cure,
Return to that which alone is pure
Let us run then, to icons true,
To saints of old and new ones too.
For there, beyond the veil's thin thread,
The Church, the Bride, with drink and bread.
Each brushstroke makes a sacred key,
Unlocked truths set spirits free.
For icons guide us to the One,
Beyond the screen's illusory sun.
And may we tread with humble feet,
For Nicea II is long complete.
Let us venerate the saints whose souls,
Are one with God, their hearts made whole.