Strolling through the streets of Rome,
His intellect felt right at home.
And with each hallowed church he passed,
His eyes God's beauty found at last.
Admidst the glorious grandeur there,
He sniffed the power of Peter's chair.
And the severed vision that he'd known--
Its solas left him all alone.
He mused: I almost understand
How the ancient Church could tempt a man
To leave the faith of his younger days
And huddle 'neath this Mother's gaze.
But when he ventured out to see
The basilica of Saint Anthony,
He shrank in horror from the sight
Of simple folks and their folksy rites.
They had the gall to bow the knee
At the pickled tongue of dear Anthony.
Such marvels vexed his erudition.
Oh! churlish, crass, common superstition!
For how could Rome's brilliance dwell beside
Fetish for morsels of saints who died?
Remember, said He who made body and soul:
Beloved, thy faith has made thee whole.