A torn cross of crucified metal
like the twisted girders of a city seared by war
stands in silent serenity.
There is no figure on it;
the pain is not individual
nor is it long ago.
Outside, with a trust that is undeserved,
the ruins of the old reach out to touch the new;
Forgiveness in stone,
raised by the hands of men
perhaps in the half knowledge
that no longer can we say,
“We know not what we do.”
Here man himself has risen again,
knowing and defying all the inhumanities
that man inflicts on man.
these stark walls testify to truth, to hope.
Kneel not, pilgrim.
Here one can worship standing up.