This camp will be my Cathedral,
the starry sky its endless dome
on pillars of concrete and steel.
This twisted wire the icon of suffering,
the walls no more than the edge of my diocese,
a thousand, five hundred, fifty, ten, one,
numbers more or less.
My altar is before, rock unadorned,
a sliver of bread at hand,
no chalice but my palm,
the Lord present before me,
with me, in me, my one power.
And I am not alone.