Knowing my routines as close neighbors do,
They regard me with suspicion as I drive off to church-
“It’s a weekday, for chrissakes!”
They don’t know it is 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 those 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.