THe painted angel with his heavy wings
paced along the footworn ancient flags
of the deep cathedral nave before the quiet
congregation, awaiting the Marys, ready
to proclaim the great and terrible emptiness
of God's tomb: Non est hic; surrexit!
sicut praedixerat. So that a friar
preaching to a dubious crowd, at length
advised them: If you believe not me, go
to Coventry, where you may see it acted
every year!

                    Faith enacted
may be faith, or it may not be faith, and yet
thousands thrilled to hear the angel cry,
and homeward bent their weary peasant backs
some with missing limbs or eyes, and some
all poxed, yet talking as they went, of God,
of brightness all around, of one night
that vexed the frightened shepherds long ago.