The girl came into the church
from changing light,
birdsong and trees, to stone
and a half-light.
God’s body lay on the altar.
She pitied Him there
under the vaulted dark,
the still, stale air.
Would not God be in His world
of living day?
She laid the thing in her apron,
slipped away.
—
The priest comes to the altar,
finds it robbed.
Gone the silver monstrance
with the flesh of God.
Elders gather, the bells
ring out of time.
What ugly villain commits
so lost a crime?
But someone saw the girl
with her apron-full.
They follow her to the fields.
She tells them all,
leads them by track and tussock,
finally stops
where a wild rose-bush flowers
at the edge of a copse.
Monstrance and Host in the grass
wink at the sky.
They must home to the church
and the girl must die.
—
They set a stake in the square
for her soul’s good,
and first of the faggots they laid
the rose from the wood.
Shriven, she raised her face
to the sweet air
and a voice came out of the wind
for all to hear
“The spirit is innocent
and comes to Me.”
Then all around gave thanks
on bended knee,
blessed God for a soul rescued
from Satan’s siege.
But the girl of flesh they burned
for her sacrilege.