Good Friday, 2016, Québec City
I learned about the holy door,
Just one of seven in all the world,
A tourist here at Holy Week,
Though nothing holy did I seek.
Returning to the train to ride,
I thought that I might turn aside
And see this sight, perhaps pass through,
Before I bid Québec adieu.
I thought I could not pass, until
I read that persons of goodwill
Might open up the heavy gate,
With love converting any weight.
"Je suis la porte" (Jesus a dit),
So said the sign, this Good Friday,
As I approached the holy door
I felt that I could not ignore.
Inside, a man in collar stood
In welcome, and I understood
It no mistake to pass inside
Where early pilgrims turned aside.
Then looking at the ceiling, high,
The wood and gold all pleased the eye,
I then turned back to give my card
To him who'd offered kind regards.
A "Presby minister," he read,
"A fellow Christian, then," he said;
My thanks, and his to me, alors,
Had opened other holy doors.
When all that's different now divides,
Christ still, by death, would open wide
To each, the love that ends all strife,
And help us sanctify this life.
Scott L. Barton
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