Because I will not raise my hands to take

the benediction from the pastor’s lips,

my daughter stands beside me, lifts my arms —

two dead men whom she means to resurrect.

She cannot fathom my contrariness,

uneasy virtue camouflaged as vice,

nor license what must seem like unbelief,

refusal to accept a gentle law.

The truth is something knottier than that:

spontaneous conviction polished hard.

The pulpit offers rest while I seek work.

My labor is the labor she performs,

my blessing her capacity for grace,

my good word the petition on her face.