Stained-glass and Incense

In my dream the top of the ornate oak pew is at eye level:
The wood bears the patina of generations of hard-working hands
And dustings by soft cotton rags torn from old work shirts;
The oak is dun, the wandering grain pattern is tiny black dashes
Speaking the mysteries of faith like some random Morse code
Tapped out by angels in the growth layers of the old oak.
I see the angels, grouped around the telegraph key,
Huge wings quivering gently, halos glowing softly
Richly robed bodies swaying subtly in time with the heavenly chorus.
The message is simple, but I cannot comprehend it:
I stare at the Oak panel seeking some Rosetta Stone
That will explain all. Dies Ires echoes over my head;
I hear the brass chain clinking against the incense burner.
Soon the heady opium of burning sandalwood flows over me;
I do not hear the pews creaking, the coughing, the babies crying
Silently, above me, the roof lifts off the church,
The angel chorus descends, chanting gloriously, into my head,
The roof settles silently. A cough echoes above me.
The sun the slopes through the taffy-coloured stained-glass
And coats my hands, just like my father’s, with nicotine.