His right hand raised, its slender fingers curled,
the left hand holding up the holy book,
He offers His salvation to the world
and blessing from the One whom it forsook.
The figure dominates the apse, its cloak
of blue half-open, seeming to embrace
all those who would assume His gentle yoke,
and find redemption in His sacred face.
Reflections from the dome illuminate
with gold the nimbused cross around His head;
below, archangels, Virgin, saints await
the resurrection of the ransomed dead.
His steady eyes appear to turn their gaze
on every viewer—deep, unblinking, dark,
yet luminous and searching as the rays
that light the nave, the covenant’s new ark.
Anonymous, just strangers in a crowd,
like those who stood on a Judean hill
to watch, and heard Him as He cried aloud,
we know the power of His passion still:
the letters come alive, the voice is clear,
as though, through two millennia, we heard
the Christ Pantokrator among us here
proclaim, in words, Himself, the perfect Word.
What of this wonder can I take away—
with photos, and a very human pride?
The palm of life, a soul become the prey
of burning love, the body glorified.
— Catharine Savage Brosman*
* Catharine Savage Brosman’s “Christ Pantokrator” is reprinted with permission from Points of Gold: Poems for
Leo Luke Marcello, edited by Stella Nesanovich (Xavier University Press, 2005).
