A woman and a man meet on a hill
In the shadow of a cross.
They might be friends or lovers or enemies,
From the east, west, north or south.
They might be strong or weak,
Courageous or cowardly,
They may limp from past wounds,
Or aim high for future glory.
They may be Russian or German,
Korean, Peruvian, American or Chinese,
Iraqi, Turkish, British or any other nationality,
They may call any landmass home.
But in the bread they break together,
In the shadow of that cross,
The walls crumble,
And one single Cornerstone remains.
It’s likely that they are rich or poor,
Happy or sad,
Satisfied or frustrated,
Privileged or marginalised.
They may well be young or old,
Full of faith or doubt,
Sick or healthy,
But one thing is etched upon their being.
They are citizens of Heaven,
Members of a global neighbourhood,
Three billion silhouettes snaking behind them;
United in the shadow of that cross,
Meeting in that broken bread and spilt wine,
And in this quaking world, they have found another home,
Not far from a displaced stone and an open tomb.