I sometimes look into the eyes of my child
And pray to God and the Holy Virgin for forgiveness.
I brought her to this world.
When I seek evidence of a soul,
I find it in her. Animated, trans-substantiated.
Her very being in existence.
Proof of the divine is not etched in stained glass,
Nor the Masons folly of heaven ascending spire.
Instead a window reflected in dazzling blue.
Was my sin in creation absolved, as rough nails drove home.
Am I to be punished more than in thought verse and prose.
Belief is not opinion.
What shapes the paradox of my sinful act of creation.
How can beauty and innocence be wrong.
I do not create this world.
I sacrifice upon its altar.
© John Bullock 2013