by Julia Griffin
On the red smoke, we saw the form embossed
Of what we had forgotten might be lost;
Inside, laid open to the light of day,
The heart that burned but did not burn away,
Holding the furnace as the walls turned black;
The fragile rose that glowed but did not crack;
The candles in the nave, still burning there,
As if to prove that fire is also prayer.
Perhaps we need such suffering to prove
The wonderful resilience of love;
This is the feast day of the risen Lamb.
Joyeuses Pâques, Madame, Notre Dame.