Are the tools of ritual not themselves holy?

Blessed are those that continue the work, holy as the hands that wrought it.

Those hands, that divinity, this legacy.

 

The shadowed eye, the bowed line of the mouth,

daily anointed in pigment and oil.

Are the tools of ritual not themselves holy?

 

Giveth and taketh away, the dough is kneaded and must rest.

Every night a new bounty, a new blessing.

Those hands, that bread, this meal.

 

Cloth for every raiment, cut to every form,

needles and pins made bloody with the love that can be touched.

Are the tools of ritual not themselves holy?

 

Affectations adopted by the faithful, to become more like the divine,

the elixir every morning, the ointments every night, the work done in the daylight.

Those hands, that work, this tradition.

 

The tomb lies shrouded in mystery, unattended by her followers

yet many relics are left behind, to impart their sacred guidance.

Are the tools of ritual not themselves holy?

But no other hands, no abandoned trinket, no concocted platitude could ever replace –

 

I fear I am a bad Saint

 

---

Fenn MacDonald is an award-winning poet, author, and editor currently haunting the Pacific Northwest. Find them on Twitter @FennFatale