My faith for one whole year, it was your hands,
The priests of my heart’s peace, when they with bells
That peeled, passed through the ranks of choired stands
In fleeting brief communion with mine own.
Far greater than the Father’s vital hands -
By which our father Adam first felt life -
Were yours, such catholic hands that cooly gave
To me sustaining weekly meat and drink.
The congregations’ common sets of palms
Wrought nought except by force to heat mine own,
And ’twas a heat that I would quick disown,
Just like th’ ephemeral metrics of the psalms.
They were a purgatory that staved off you,
Til meeting, I might say, ‘Peace be with you.’