From Palestine, an eve before crusading, With Europe fast approaching an impasse Pietro Barbolano, Doge of Venice, Had whisked away the bones of Saint Sabbas. Yet people dozed, his city hardly bothered, By then herself great Venice felt assured, Saint Mark remained enameled in his glory— Perhaps fed eastern bone-meal we matured. While life went on the pious never wavered, The monks of Mar Saba would gather still Around the empty tomb for generations And marked the slow observance of god’s will. And so it came, nine hundred years and trimmings, When Paul the Sixth had raised a popish voice, The bones returned and Venice scarcely noticed While in the desert fifteen monks rejoiced.
Had no idea it even existed and the pictures make it look like it's carved into the rock. Really beautiful.
Wonderful poem as usual. Made me think of the Elgin marbles fiasco that flares up every few years.