I am not Catholic, but I watched this morning's Mass at St. Patrick's cathedral.
An elderly man walks slowly
Down the aisle of a majestic cathedral,
Dressed in robes of white.
A miter on his head
Bears a golden cross
Like the one he carries in his hand.
He is stooped with age
Or perhaps responsibility.
He is Pope Benedict XVI.
There is mention of St. Peter.
Suddenly, without premonition,
Tears come
And emotion overwhelms me.
Whether I believe
All his church's doctrines
Or not,
His lineage traces back
Through almost two thousand years,
Back to a fisherman from Galilee
Who knew my Savior.
He is the living embodiment
Of my faith,
A connection to my Lord.
For the moment, he draws me closer
To God.
Down the aisle of a majestic cathedral,
Dressed in robes of white.
A miter on his head
Bears a golden cross
Like the one he carries in his hand.
He is stooped with age
Or perhaps responsibility.
He is Pope Benedict XVI.
There is mention of St. Peter.
Suddenly, without premonition,
Tears come
And emotion overwhelms me.
Whether I believe
All his church's doctrines
Or not,
His lineage traces back
Through almost two thousand years,
Back to a fisherman from Galilee
Who knew my Savior.
He is the living embodiment
Of my faith,
A connection to my Lord.
For the moment, he draws me closer
To God.
Photo by Beyond Forgetting
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