Three hundred sinners ‘neath a vaulted roof
Resenting every ounce of what was there;
Alone among each other, and aloof,
Inanimate by love, or hope, or care —
Especially resentful as they stare
Insensate at the cassock’d oaf who stands
Before them – wheezing voice and thinning hair –
The small white disk held high in trembling hands.

A faint bell rings; light shines; all kneel —
From habit, more than anything, not awe.
The Presence, even so, remains quite Real:
‘Midst criminals Christ best fulfills the Law.
The gates of Hell are down; the devils fear
And know: a mighty thing has happened here.