Quasimodo dilemma

His hands clasped over his ears    
as they called the rich and poor to prayer,
crying for the pain to stop  
from the ore when it was cast    
in the foundry as molten metal splashed.  
Did god condone each single burn  
weary hands as they hammered it to pitch,  
 It will strike just like a torch  
the flame of music at its source,    
reverberating like dirt upon the coffin's lid.  
A liturgy,  a clean unsoiled handkerchief  
torn with the frequency of pinking shears.  
The bell ringer counts the score  
in black shroud or bridal white,  
the murmur of how beautiful she looks:    
confetti or a wilting wreath;  
a crown of thorns do we pay heed?    
The campanologist locked in the peel  
stand in the unbroken ring  
spell out as each pull the devil fights.  
Did the capper ever lie, fake the hammers strike? 
This is life: this is wrong, this is right; its song  
town crier, shout Oyez! Oyez!  
 madness be but a chime away  
in towers of suspended isolation.  
 Grip to weather all the changes  
mingled, are tangled ropes of concern's discord;  
harbinger of frailty, they flood and spill  
in foreign tongue the sentinel ?  
Moments  unproofed,  its message oft misunderstood.  
The doorbell chimes, a solemn constable  
stands with saddened eyes;  
a crook just to herd us sheep,    
supplication, joy, or mourning voice from the belfry.  
Loud chimes or tinkles of humanity  
Nortra-Dame's hunchback is the baggage that we carry;  
tinnitus no mind can parry