… I am afraid of the Cross,
For the One Who plays with infinitude,
The One above all names,
Rides here, into my gray city, on an ass.
I believe, but not enough,
While the children and the stones hosanna,
My little knowledge has become a dangerous thing.
I am shot full of intellectual assents,
But I do not believe enough to work, to love,
To sense the pure,
To drive away the cynic, the sardonic,
The savant dilettante from my lips,
The arsonist that would rather curse
Than bless at the extremities of confession …

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