by Paul C. Binotto
Mother Church sets her eternal clock
Hands against time’s infernal march.
The pendulum, the key to Heaven’s lock,
Swings its narrow span,
Between faith and reason.
Every season, in rhythm to God’s plan.
Persona Christi on high Pontiff perch sits.
And, beneath upraised Gothic brow
A universal eye more often acquits,
What man commits and omits. More often it’s
Not God nor Church, that’s less forgiving; it’s self.
And, itself, for much lesser offense, convicts.