We strained to follow hits to the top story.
The traceries were triples, grounders strikes.
A homer had to clear the slated pitch.
Like Michaels sword, our broomstick swung at strikes,
As the church towers shadow draped each pitch
And evening dimmed Good Fridays stained-glass story.
All but the dusk was fair. Then, black as pitch,
The sky obscured our vision and His story
Of a thrust spear and jagged lightning strikes.
A final pitch, three strikes . That game is history.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 25 Number 7, on page 32
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