MAN OF OUR TIME

Christ before me. Christ behind me.
Like dust motes in September sun
the words filter
mid-European through the static.

Inch by inch, yard by yard.
Exhaust fumes on an Irish road.
Prepared yet unprepared a nation waits.

Christ before me. Christ behind me.
A nation succumbs.

Christ before him. Christ behind him.
And surely Christ within him.