Paul
stands, mallet in hand
and
eyes the ancient chunk of rock
He
sees an angel in the stone
And
chips away at all that’s not
And
we watch his sweating work
And
we see the pieces fall
And
we try to build some logic
From
the gravel on the floor
But
we miss the angel rising from the pounded piece of stone
We
prefer to grasp the sculptor’s sturdy tools
And
press them to our modern uses
But
they blister softer hands and souls
And
we walk away, frustrated
While
the angel weeps, alone.
(My response to Romans 5)