Was this Beata's grief in thought of Christ upon the cross,
that a soul like his, though timid and immured in monkish cells,
could not be there in person, go and help the Body down?

He dared to lead his shadowed self on to a canvas limned.
to designate a hidden wish made palpable in oil:
to be of some small service: lift the Hands or hold the Nails?

And still how paradoxical: one sees him stand outside
the group performing there its holy work in huddled mass,
while he, his face averted, long and thin and pitiful,
looks too petrified to come and add his shoulder to the deed.

Did his rehumbled piety break in and thrust him back,
that mirrors him just stricken white who dared aspire so,
full penitence rebuking what was once audacity?

Or was his vacillation but the image of a plan:
the act of service imminent, emotion intervenes
and smites the whole man feeble, palsies arms and legs and feet?

Was this Beata's sorrow, retraversing Golgotha,
that brought his body up to where—it had to turn its head?