Across his mother’s lap. His gentle face
Displays no evil. Everything about
Him signals justice, purity and grace.
She holds her child just crucified. Her eyes
Speak volumes more than lips alone could say
As she caresses God and man and cries.
In art that speaks so well, that moves one when
It neither moves itself nor makes a sound.
To see stone wearing piety — if it
Convinces, how much more the hypocrite?
To gather briefly in a Sunday mass?
Perhaps in such ephemeral crowds are minds
Drawn by the Holy Spirit, the stained glass,
Perhaps some broken hearted people come
In search of explanations. Possibly
Some come in fear of brimstone — maybe some
Because of Hell. Perhaps some others burn
Quite differently and mingle where they might
At good, warm Sunday spirits where it’s fine
For even drunks to have a little wine.