THE EASTER VISIT

THE EASTER VISIT

You laid Him in my arms the night He came,

you took me on the Flight,

and even when you lost your Little Boy

you let me share your fright.

I was at Cana when your quiet word

evoked His wonder-hour,

with you I followed Him when, down long days,

He taught as One with power.

I stood beneath the Cross with you and watched

the heart within you break,

I helped you wrap His Body for the tomb

and wept for pity’s sake.

But in that dawning, going home to you –

beautiful evermore! –

I understood when He went in alone;

and closed the door.

Sister M St Virginia

America.  15 April 1938

Used with permission

SALVE REGINA

SALVE REGINA

Even as children all of us learned of sorrow,

but some of us learned with method in a school

where even children study why tomorrow

will bring them tears.  Thus I, too, heard the rule

from a voice explaining that any exile must languish

away from home when night draws down on him;

I was given the formula for the hour of anguish,

saying it now while day grows grey and grim

across the years I hear St Bernard singing –[1]

out of the valley of tears wherein I grope –

his burden of grief: just as I now am bringing

my grief to her our Sweetness and our Hope

and shadows lift today as long ago,

above New York as once above Clairvaux.

Sister M St Virginia BVM

In: Robert.  1946

Used with permission

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[1] Some people, like this author, believe St Bernard of Clairvaux to have written the prayer Salve Regina (Hail Holy Queen).  Others, like Sister St Miriam of the Temple CND (cf page 80) ascribe the authorship of this poem to St Herman the Cripple.

TO MARY, QUEEN OF THE WORLD

TO MARY, QUEEN OF THE WORLD

                                                                        O you, who wear a diadem of stars,

                                                                        yet visit our drab earth from time to time

                                                                        holding converse with children, poor, unkempt,

                                                            yet pure of heart, great Lady, through the bars

                                                                        and prisons of man’s making and the grime

                                                                        of sin; the darkened regions of contempt,

                                                                        come!  Be our radiant Queen! Light up the way

once more. Bend down in beauty while we pray

of littleness: let there be seen

God's triumph in all hearts. Reign here blest Queen!

Sister M Thuribius

The Apostle. May 1958

                                                                          

                                                     

                                                                                 

MAGNIFICAT IN CRUCE

   

                                                MAGNIFICAT IN CRUCE[1]

                                                Three vultures rend the blue Magnificat

                                                that breaks above the cross we grow upon:

                                                blind pride, replumed, and savage might have sought

                                                stability in nails that know the bone;

                                                and by these wounds rich, empty self would claim

                                     the very hour when hunger is fulfilled

                                                and, blessed from end to end in Wisdom’s Name,

                                                deep in the Father’s kiss lone fear is stilled.

                                                But, timed to Seven Words,[2] these three husks fall

     amid the skulls that missed the needle’s eye,

                                     while greening blade the least, full ear, and all

                                                rise in the harvest of a mother’s cry –

                                                our Fiat’s[3] flesh and blood, our last accord –

                                                “My very soul doth magnify the Lord!”

                                                Sister Thomas Aquinas OP

                                                Spirit.  July 1935                       

                       

                       

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[1] (My soul) proclaims the greatness of the Cross

[2] Refers to Jesus’ words from the cross.

[3] Let it be done (unto me according to thy Word)

THIS WAY WENT MARY

THIS WAY WENT MARY

This way went Mary down from Nazareth

into the hearts of men : with simple grace

kissing the quick tears from a child’s small face;

sweeping her cottage clean; each eager breath

lyric with joy; wearing love’s shibboleth

bravely within her young heart’s cloistered place,

knowing its subtle potency to trace

upon the spirit anguish deep as death.

A woman’s heart is pitiful and tender,

quickened with strength too beautiful to tell;

into lone place of your soul, a slender

white peace will creep – her peace, no wind can quell;

and you shall know her love’s most delicate splendour –

when the last lark takes heaven’s blue citadel.

Sister M Thérèse SDS

Now there is Beauty.  1940

Used with permission     

SALUTE (Before the statue of Our Lady of Peace in St Mary Major)

SALUTE

(Before the statue of Our Lady of Peace in St Mary Major[1])

The little lad brushed past me like a dart

thrown by some seraph lurking in the gloom

pushing the opal dusk apart

at arch and chiselled tomb;

where down the tall nave’s pillared road

bright Hymettus marble glowed

this little one

With sweet face bronzed by an Italian sun

came to a crisp halt where

a white madonna waited wistfully

for some small prayer,

or still word spoken to her Child

Who held an olive branch, and smiled.

With ritual of medieval knight

taut at attention, drawn to his full height,

this cherubic recruit

raised a small hand in swift salute

as it were meet

that he salute a lady in the street,

so now this Lady in the dusk-dimmed nave

beneath the multi-shadowed architrave.

But as he turned to go I saw him start

as at some little thought that bruised his heart –

had he heard what the blue winds said

of bitter steel wings overhead? –

Oblivious of discipline

this military mannikin

in one swift bound

climbed to her feet,

and heedless of the worshipper’s critique

leaned close across the rhythms of her gown

and laid a kiss upon her curved, cool cheek,

then scrambled down

and fleet

fled through the pillars to the Roman street.

As when a tired tree against a hill

is rinsed with sudden music and grows still,

so stood I spirit-shaken, pondering

the lonely wisdom of this thing:

not only in lip-rubric told with care

is power of prayer;

there is a luminous leaven

of silence more articulate to bless –

there are some things that must be torn from heaven

by tears and tenderness.

Sister M Thérèse SDS

Give Joan a Sword.  MacMillan. 1945. Used with permission

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[1] St Mary Major is one of the four patriarchal basilicas or churches of Rome.  Built in 352 AD, it was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary in 435 AD.  Cf Page 48.