Grace

The choir is singing:

Ave verum corpus, natum de Maria Virgine:
Vere passum immolatum in cruce pro homine...


Incense sweet and deep smelling fills the air, the congregation in making its circuit up out of chairs, down the various aisles, back to seats, the cupbearers leave the altar, leave their various stations to drain the last of the wine from brass chalices, shiny as gold. Maybe they are gold and I would rather not believe. Here, God, is the mystery. It is shapeless save the shape be round, round like eternity. It is not a doctrine or a creed but truth and love. You cannot grasp it, it cannot be touched except by touching the flesh and blood of the person in the pew beside you.

Amen