Somewhere in the back of my mind was this image of a monk.  No doubt I read it at some point, probably years ago, and I am now unable to properly attribute it.  It came back when I saw this sign. 

As though some cloistered scribe had dozed off

In the silence of his cell, bored with his calling

To copy endless scriptures and illumine them

With something more than faint candle light,

His quill veering across the page and falling

Off the edge - there is a jagged crack across

The church's sign, sermon topic and hymn

Numbers wavering in flickering fluorescence.

My devotion is drawn not to the revelation

Of the words but to the real message written

In the line continuing on from where Advent

Leaves off, my faith in life and death and after

There in the mystery written in the marginalia.