The Altarpiece
In great cathedrals, empty and still
we sat…
Tiny tongues of flame cast feeble
shadows
through
the vast, dark room—
the
prayers of the penitent
the
mourning
the
outcast
We look up, study that vast, ancient
work
that
stands now behind the altar—
its
surface still shimmering with the
sheen
of the master’s brush.
O writhing man, pinned on that cruel
frame!
The
pain in his face no language can tell—
even
the image bears only
shadows
of the truth.
His hands, though torn, reach out
in
weary, violent embrace—or is it
the
open plea of despair?
A weight greater than that cruel,
crossed wood
was
borne on blameless back that day.
Yea, the figure below, his fingers
still
clasped ‘round the offending hammer
as
he scoffs upward—it is a face
I
know too well. It is my own.
And now the tears come, welling up
from
deep within. It is a cry
of
mourning, a wail of deepest hope—
oh,
that my sin should demand
so
high a price!
I have been in temples and shrines
and
seen the faces of other gods.
They
are content, blissful, and unaware.
Basking
in their serenity, the world
slips
by to the screams of the children,
the
death-cries of the starving
as
they lie wasted in the street.
And
the gods are unmoved.
No, this is the God for me.
In
agony and torment, I know
He
paid my ransom-price.
Not
in escaping life, but in surrendering
to
the tortures of this shadowland
did
he find peace. And only there,
in
that twisted, pain-wracked visage,
can
the road of my peace lie.
For
only he understands.
I smile weakly and turn to my dear
companion.
The
flickering light sparkles off the tears
rolling
down her cheeks,
and
I know she has met her God again,
just
as I have.
We rise together, silent, and
shuffle
hand-in-hand
to the prayer table,
where
we carefully blow out
the
last dying flames.
And the cathedral is dark again.