The crucifix requires no glove.
(A grieving Emily Dickinson, near the end of her own life, in a five-word letter to a friend about the death of a mutual friend they had lost in his prime of life.)
Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word?He is a brittle crazy glass;Yet in thy temple thou dost him affordThis glorious and transcendent place,To be a window, through thy grace.
But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story,Making thy life to shine withinThe holy preachers, then the light and gloryMore reverend grows, and more doth win;Which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin.
Doctrine and life, colors and light, in oneWhen they combine and mingle, bringA strong regard and awe; but speech aloneDoth vanish like a flaring thing,And in the ear, not conscience, ring.