"Holy, holy, holy," they chanted, the words rhythmic and ancient.
In the third row, a man who had entered carrying the crushing silence of a lonely week felt his chest tighten. The song wasn’t just a melody; it was a geography. With every crescendo, the walls of the church seemed to peel away, replaced by the shimmering imagery of a glass sea and an emerald rainbow. The singers weren't just performing for a congregation; they were soundtracking an audience with the Divine. "Holy, holy, holy," they chanted, the words rhythmic
in more technical, evocative detail.