Swithin’s. Hands clasped, he stared at the plain wooden cross and contemplated the nature of suffering. How simple an object it was, this cruciform shape. In the Roman Church a plaster statue of Christ would be nailed to it. His face would be contorted in agony. There would be marks from the pricking of thorns around his head and blood where the nails entered his hands and feet. It would be visceral and real. Supplicants could almost put their hand in his side. But this unadorned cross seemed so far removed from humanity. It transcended all suffering and agony. Just as God seemed to. What did he care for the injustices endured by mere mortals? Why should he care? Perhaps, just perhaps there was no God. The voice of Satan filled his head again. He kept hearing it at times like these; when he was alone with his grief. He bowed his head in prayer, trying to block out the nagging whispers, and from out of the blackness came his beloved Margaret. His heart was aching with the loneliness of loss.
