I didn't like it. Although it may have sounded solemnly, I found it annoying. My friend baritone who sang with me earlier in the ceremony mockingly remarked that I should write it down and even the lady security guard couldn't fall asleep while I was playing, which she suggested was because of the lack of pentatonic mode.
Would it have been written down, after some 300 years it is more than likely that this postlude will be found in some attic, without a page or two. And it will be sold to museum for an old piece and put under protective glass. And organ music lovers will go see and have deep respect for it. They will be in awe by the splendid dotted rhythms, and try to guess as to how artistically pleasing the page or two that were lost most certainly was.
We, who are living today, don't appreciate the perfection of that postlude. We take it for granted. It is like the forests and the oceans: We don't admire their beauty because we are so used to them. So it is with that postlude.
In 2316, listeners will flock to hear it. Creating such postludes will have become an art of the past. Our great great great grand children will marvel at how we wrote them, and think how intelligent we were. We will be called affectionately as "those old masters that worked in the 21st century and created those annoying postludes."