Medieval or Eternity
The artist does not have a name. Severe
With grace in stone, the sculptures look down on
Us, masking his identity, a tear
Not shed, a smile withheld. The brawn
Of arm and shoulder, strength and talent of
The hand can only be supposed. The man
Himself, his sweat and onion breath, his love
For Jesus and the Virgin, these the span
Of centuries have obliterated, name
And all about him lost, except the grace
In folds. Alone that talent beggars fame.
Who needs it? God and he are in this place
Until Christ’s Judgement Day and then if God
Remains without him, that will be like fraud.