In a cathedral of stone, stark and white,
with a lone statue from long before.
It stands in a niche, with a soft spotlight
shining on its medieval decor.

A ****** Mary, with her Mona Lisa smile,
looks down from her pedestal high.
In quiet, I stand and gaze at her for a while.
Did I just hear her audibly sigh?

Her gilded robes are weathered, cracked,
the once bright paint’s faded and spare,
many scars made plain by shadows cast
by a red circle of candles lit by prayers.

What crises has this scarred Mary seen?
Her sighs echo ours: This statue’s hallowed
by the pains the prayerful to her bring.
I hail thee, marred Mary, full of our sorrows.