At St. Mary’s

A cross is lifted o’er us
directing our gaze.
Its two beams seem to soar
elevated and unattainable,
poised against stark blue,
eclipsing veils of white
stretched out and billowing.
Our eyes are mysteriously drawn,
held, by this sign of suffering.

Holiness, too, is high and difficult
to reach with human stature.
We strain towards heaven,
desperate for the divine disparity,
yet it eludes our grasp.
Still, two beams stand outstretched,
an assurance in the azure sky
that heaven has suffered,
stooped and come to us.

PR and KH

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