My
long ornate arms stretched to take you in,
hands
welcoming with hospitality—
into
the realm of Christ's divinity.
You
put your two coins in the church of tin.
I
ran the race of life to gaining, win,
you
ran beside on personality;
tell
he who made the robin and the tree
there
was one more touch of madness or sin,
you
would walk no more, nor truant-wing fly;
your
vestal wounds had all been scavenged, seared,
there
was little left to love but a shell.
Priests
would say your last rites lest you faithless die,
though
the church's holy altar once was feared,
you
walk into Christ's silvered arms full well.
