Gentlemen, a story is told,
Of a fellow and a priest,
On pilgrimage on a night so cold.
Of fellows bound for the silvery east,
In search of selves and grace,
Of healing and Jesus' face.
So is it told that on a night,
Dark as the yawning grave,
Hours from the dawning light,
When shadows petrify e'en the brave,
A night, as quiet as quiet can be,
Cold as ice on the northern sea.
The priest didst tell the fellow,
Freezing, burning yet with desire
A sworn acolyte, albeit callow,
To throw the crucifix into the dying fire.
But the fellow said, sir, I dare not,
Take my Christ as an afterthought.
And so is the tragic story told,
Of how a fellow and his priest,
Froze and died, huddled into a mold,
For a fellow would not betray his Christ.
A sisyphean whitewash.
Or a karmic backwash?