Half-way to Heaven
A lot of people died on the job.
Some fell to their death
and some were crushed by falling stone.
Some hearts gave out.
But the church got built:
from the portals that one day Monet would paint,
to the gargoyles on the roof,
sitting there, grinning.
Knowing far more than they should,
who carved them out of nightmare stone,
all but invisible to mortal eyes,
so close to Heaven they’ve turned ugly with desire?
The voices of the church choir do not reach them.
Not that they would care.
Prayers pass them by,
while they sit there, grinning.
Wood and nails begot a church,
a slave’s death its conception.
Gargoyles put Him in His grave
and rose half-way to Heaven.