Who are we on Sundays?

 

 

When the phone falls silent and the emails mute,

when everyone you know is looking beyond you to the Cross,

who are you then, Pilgrim?

 

You left last week’s luggage at the door of the church.

You kneel in need to cure the costume-covered skin

and the woeful role-playing soul.

 

Leave the church by your own personal porta santa.

Walk past the past and forswear the trammel.

Be born again.