He roamed quarries at Carrara caressing blocks of marble, tracing veins like a blind man to find the Virgin within. Here, the limp arm hangs; here, the bent head of the mother; here, her murdered son.
He coaxed her from stone chiseling in her face the memory of Simeon's prophecy of a sword piercing her heart: a wholly inadequate portent for this, this hammer of death harder than marble.