Beneath the towering oils of holy deaths —
Cascading thunderstorms of crucifixion,
Hands tortured into final benediction,
Forgiveness in so many final breaths —
They stand, a little dull, a little pale,
A little worn by all the years of prayer,
As if the hopes still hanging in the air
Had left them strangely tired and sad and stale —
The painted saints of plaster, wood and stone,
So far beyond our grasping human reach,
With nothing but their wordlessness to preach
What lies beyond all breath and bone.
They teach us in so many silent ways —
A missing hand, a still uplifted gaze.
