J.B. Toner
Well, answer me, for God’s love, Christ, speak up—
Explain Your perfect Paradise to me,
Where Clare and Francis sup (quite possibly)
With those who poison your once-sacred cup:
With rapists, killers, child-molesting priests,
Where Stalin (maybe, through Your holy grace)
Meets tortured gulag inmates face to face
And sings hosannahs at the endless feast!
Yes, You forgive us, Lord, I know that part—
But we’re just human, Jesus, You forget,
So how can we forgive what we have done?
— Oh, wait. . . Your human mother’s human heart
Was pierced by me, and each of us, and yet
She loves me still, the killer of her Son.
