The last ones squeeze in.
The door rolls shut.
The subway rumbles off.
I can't move;
I am no longer an individual but a crowd,
A crowd that moves in one piece like jellied soup in its can.
A nameless and indifferent crowd, probably far from you, Lord.
I am one with the crowd, and I see why it's sometimes hard for me to rise higher.
This crowd is heavy — leaden soles on my feet, my slow feet — a crowd too large for my overburdened skiff.
Yet, Lord, I have no right to overlook these people; they are my brothers,
And I cannot save myself, alone.
Lord, since you wish it, I shall head for heaven "in the subway."— Michael Quoist in Prayers