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Poem

It begins at an apex point,
a hand that’s reaching down,
a dove flies freely below this,
above a divine crown.
You all know what King’s sitting there,
in white robes and halo,
the sun comes in the morning
though shades of molten gold.
The cherub angels fly by Him
above the fallen Earth,
stars on blue like a fleur-de-lis
are speaking to His worth.
Below are the well-known figures,
the twelve who spread the news,
one with curved staff, one with keys,
and words you hear in pews.
On her knees is an old mother
with glory of her own,
clad in blue and violent robes,
the things that she has known…
Behind them all is a tall cross,
letters I. N. R. I.,
a symbol of the sacrifice
they say redeems our lives.
Around it patterns quite complex,
flowers blue, red, and green,
a vernal cornucopia,
rebirth is what it means.
Made by men death a thousand years,
speaking through centuries,
reminding the cynics out there
of the need for beauty.
And though faith still exceeds our grasp,
brings questions to our minds,
you can’t deny that it creates
works utterly sublime.

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