THE ANNUNCIATION

THE ANNUNCIATION

The purest of all virgins fair,

that ever trod the earth,

perused the ancient prophecies

of the Messiah’s birth.

An angel came to visit her,

he called her full of grace,

the humble maid was sore perplexed;

distress suffused her face.

The messenger announced to her

the heavenly Father’s Word.

Then Mary humbly said to him:

“Behold the handmaid of the Lord.”

Sister St Stanislas CDP

In: Robert.  1946

ADVENT

ADVENT

Now are days of ineffable waiting,

splendorous past surmise –

Oh the feel of a babe’s soft fingers!

Oh the star-pools in its eyes!

For the bud which the Spirit grafted

to the stainless, mystic rose,

is full to break to blossom

amid the lonely snows.

Sister M Thérèse SDS

Now there is Beauty.  MacMillan.  1940                                              

Used with permission                                                                           

CAROL

CAROL                                                                      

                                                                   

I carol a song of a night of stars -                                   

and of skies a midnight blue

of fragile music of young, sweet winds                                                        

that chant the long night through.                                     

                 

Of homely shepherds and sheep I sing,

and of lambs lain down with them;

none on the wide earth glad as these

hillfold of Bethlehem.

And I sing again of the silver snow

on a roadway far and calm,

that laid a white carpet for Joseph grave

and his maid-wife Miriam.

Whose swift young feet knew a rhythmic bliss

to a rapture sudden - near

to miracle-music – a small heart’s beat

which only her heart could hear.

And her sweet lips tense with a sudden joy

lend theme to my carolling,

for only the Spirit’s utter own

dared guess what the night would bring.

And weary of song, when the dawn is up

and the stars have slipped the skies,

well do I know I shall lose my heart

to a Babe with its mother’s eyes.

Sister M Thérèse SDS

Now there is Beauty.  MacMillan.  1940

Used with permission

A FOUNTAIN SEALED

                                                                       A FOUNTAIN SEALED

One brief phrase out of scripture I prefer

to other praise of her –

She was a woman who had learned the art

of pondering in her heart.

Of inner cherishing, keeping the word

by which her soul was stirred.

Beneath the literal integument

she sweetly bent

to inner meanings, limpid and profound,

that held her bound

to them for all the years that she should be,

tasting their ecstasy

much as the fleeting colour of a wing

might hold one pondering,

or poignant words of lovers, told apart

still rend the heart.

This is the woman I would stand before

at Nazareth’s unlatched door.

This is the radiant woman I would meet

on Bethlehem’s narrow street,

Serenely poised and beautifully wise,

whose soul burns in her eyes

Holding its secret wisdom, love-annealed,

as a fountain sealed.

Sister M Thérèse SDS

In: Give Joan a Sword.  MacMillan 1945

CANDLEMAS

CANDLEMAS[1]

Brief, blissful memory : the winter world,

the pangful journey through Judean cold,

and far-off Bethlehem, a radiant blur

of Orient gold, and frankincense, and myrrh,

now is the dream come true : In exquisite rest,

His cheek a loving flame against her breast,

nestles the Babe, as Mary’s love-winged feet

draw to Jerusalem.  O gracious, sweet!

Hastening with infinite burden through the snow,

gladden the path my hesitant feet shall go

under the windswept heaven and mutable skies;

light to my way the taper of your eyes

while in joy-tremulous accents you whisper me

                                                                     Bittersweet word of Simeon’s prophecy,

Swift through the dusk, and prescient gloom shall start,

Tremble to flame the candle of my  heart.

                                                                  

                                                        Sister M Thérèse SDS

                                   Now there is Beauty.  MacMillan.  1940

                 Used with permission

---

[1] The Feast of the Purification of Mary (and Christ’s Presentation in the Temple).

HARP-SONG

HARP-SONG

A myriad mirthful cherubs

struck haunting harps till morn

on a lonely Bethlehem hillside

when the little Christ was born.

What matter the midnight darkness,

or a witching wind run wild?

The fragile maiden Mary

bowed her head and smiled

to eyes that had looked down ages

with a pathos none can speak;

to lips that had uttered judgement,

small lips that would brush her cheek.

All the gathered loves of heaven

one joy-stricken heart could fill

        were hers in a brief night’s rapture,

when grief and the stars stood still.

O lovely, wistful Mary,

from His simple bed of hay

lift up your Child to bless

this holy Christmas day.

Sister M Thérèse SDS

Now there is Beauty. MacMillan. 1940

Used with permission

.                                                                       

                                                                                   

GALILEAN MAY

GALILEAN MAY                                                                                  

                                                           

Into the hills of Galilee                                                                      

Our Lady went one day,                                                                       

lured by the wonder-woven bloom

dropped from the looms of May.                                                                        

                                                                                         

Slim lilies leaned to touch her gown,                                                     

curving through delicate air,

a fledgling thrush flew to her hand,

butterflies to her hair.

She told a secret to the winds

that brushed her garment hem –

the tear-wet, pitying winds that blew

up from Jerusalem.

And as she spoke a little Name,

whispering low and sweet,

a golden surf of buttercups

broke against her feet.

The winds and flowers of Galilee,

grown wistful of her face,

still wait her footfall at the May –

gentle and full of grace.

Sister M Thérèse

Give Joan a Sword.  1945

Used with permission