Standing in the sacristy at 6 a.m.
no polished shoes or Sunday suit.
Vestments venerable through time
cover creased cotton clothes and dirty plimsolls.
A priest is a priest
but I am not sure if the deacon beside me
is of a different order
perhaps, of a humanity
which offers a body, broken
and thrown into the river
and blood shed on the pavement of the street outside
as elements to give thanks to God
who alone comprehends these holy mysteries.