Sanguinis Christi’s bottle shattered here
Where sinner’s feet scuff by in filthy haste
There’s nothing for the masses to revere
There’s only broken glass and bits of waste
And yet, the glass reflects the purest light
Though it may never hold his blood again
One sinner’s spirit sees a different sight
A master of mosaic, finding Zen
He takes each piece within his humble art
He washes each with water, makes them clean
The shards of each and every broken part
To build the beauty only he has seen
From this, Sanguinis Christi’s shattered form
Iconic art becomes the master’s norm.