Sacred Space

Sacred Space

He is a priest not a soldier
Not in the line of fire
Christ wasn’t trying to start a revolution
And neither is he.

Sons of Spanish explorers
Kneel beside daughters with calloused hands
From picking coffee beans
When the sun dawns
Until Sol falls to his knees
And sinks like the parishioners
In humble obeisance  

So those of African descent lend their ear
To absorb this lesson so long coming
For their ancestors who wore chains
But now gaze from the pulpit
As ghosts in the genes
Of this man of the cloth
And the Pre-Columbian Quechua speakers
Find a secret smile
Reflected in his Incan eyes

And they sing as a Spanish choir
Of canaries with one voice
Until bread is broken
And in this sacred space
Rich and poor linger
On the threshold of a dream
When dialects merge
Into the language of love

But zealotry decrees the bullet that flies
And ricochets off the crucifix he bears
Like a shield of faith
Only to shatter stained glass window
Of the devil tempting Christ
Into which a single sunbeam pours
Through the crack that lets the light in

The pistol-wielding prisoner of fate
Dashes into the noon
When the church bell rings
Man of the cloth signs the cross
Over a heart that still beats
In the peaceful center
Of his sacred grotto