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
Bladee’s Redemptive Rap
Georg Friedrich Philipp von Hardenberg, better known by his pen name Novalis, died at the age of…
Postliberalism and Theology
After my musings about postliberalism went to the press last month (“What Does “Postliberalism” Mean?”, January 2026),…
Nuns Don’t Want to Be Priests
Sixty-four percent of American Catholics say the Church should allow women to be ordained as priests, according…
