A statue of the risen Lord,
No more than four feet tall,
Composed of resin painted gold,
Hung on the church’s wall.
Arms raised, it welcomed everyone
Approaching from the east:
Saints, sinners, strangers, members, guests,
The greatest to the least.
One night the statue disappeared
From its appointed spot;
Months later what was lost was found
Abandoned in a lot.
It had been tortured by the thieves
Deprived of some quick sale;
Come final judgment Christ Himself
Will get to hear their tale.
Until then, He may sigh and say,
“They know not what they do.”
For all, including you and me,
That is too often true.
—Jane Blanchard
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Christianity Is Nothing Without Dogma
Even as I was writing my column on the irrelevance of mainline Christianity two weeks ago, the…
Did Vatican II Replace One-Sided Papalism with One-Sided Episcopalism?
As everyone knows, the Second Vatican Council was an extraordinary event, with ramifications not simply for Catholicism…
Theology for a Brave New World
In this episode, Fr. Thomas Joseph White joins Rusty Reno on The Editor’s Desk to talk about…
