The sculptor crossed himself and stood. Nel nome del Padre, e del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo. Amen. (In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.) As he genuflected, he looked up into the downcast eyes of the suffering Lord. La Passione. $30,000. That’s what the monastery paid him to create the monstrosity they kneel before every sunrise and sunset. The crucifix. A man/god nailed brutally to a tree. Strung up and left to die. Baking in the sun as his lungs collapse from the inertia and he chokes on his own blood.

Perdoni loro il padre, conoscono non che cosa.

Forgive them Father; they know not what they do.

Startlingly realistic. Frightening. Motionless anguish and suffering, continuing without relief into eternity. You did this. You cast him to suffer without end. Why was it that the crucifix was at the head of every Catholic church? Why not have renderings of the Sacred Heart in its place? Money talks, that was why. Who are you to suggest to the Vatican that marble arms outstretched in a welcoming embrace would feel any warmer than marble arms stretched and nailed in place? Marble is cold in any manifestation.

The sculptor turned and walked to the back of the chapel, hearing the echo of his heel on the cobblestone floor even above the rhythmic chant of the monks. Dipping his hand into the holy water, he felt a gentle hand on his elbow.

“Signore Benetti, we’re so pleased to have you join us this morning. I realize you must have risen quite early to make the drive in time for our sunrise service. Will you join me in the courtyard?” Signore Fabrisio, the head monk asked, sotto voce.

“Happy to, Signore,” the sculptor answered, and followed. The monastery was founded in 1925 by the Passionists in Jamaica, New York and boasted a sprawling menagerie of brick buildings nestled in the manicured gardens of the estate. There was a sense of tranquility there that the sculptor usually found only in his workshop. A reflective quiet held the monastery in its embrace, protecting it from time, from interruption, and from secular concern. It was a stark contrast from his loft in the meatpacking district of New York City. He always found it funny to say he was going to Jamaica and then get on the Queensboro Bridge and head into Queens County.

“We’d like to commission you for another piece, Marcus,” Signore Fabrisio said, looking intently at Signore Benetti. “The brothers use this courtyard as a place of meditation and prayer. We have elected a statue of Saint Pelagius. Are you familiar with Pelagius?”

“Just bits from Catechism, I’ll have to research. Do you have any renderings or sketches for me to consider?”

“No renderings. Our concept was to bring forth something from the Hellenistic period—of course, keeping within the parameters of his vision.”