Hewn from some polarair they make us breathejust to look on here,they appear doubles,Michelangelo,son, mother, one death,Christ, his body bent,broken on her lap,stretches beyond pain.Mary, sufferingHis death till her ownlooks out, straight into us.Why did I bear him?How can this be mine?You who have come fromwhere the living live,what do mothers do?
Charles Hefling on atonement, Barbara Melosh on cleaning up a church, Martin Copenhaver on a long pastorate.
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