My Work

Knowing my routines as close neighbors do,

they regard me with suspicion as I drive off to church.

“It’s only a weekday for chrissakes!”

      They don’t know it’s my job.

My work to adore the sacristan’s bounty of a dark and empty church,

to polish the holy vessels of the Precious Body and Blood.

My work to hear the tumulus quiet

and the gentle creak that wood makes for no reason at all,

to smell the burnished scent of the votives… and to be still.

It is my job to be here and feel my heart burst with praise

to feel behind me, just over there, the flinty rockpile of my sins

and to be here for all that trace their wounds back to me.

It is my work to stand before the cross that takes me just as I am,

O Lamb of God I come, I come.


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