[1] The growth in understanding referred
to by the poet arose when America joined World War II on 7 December 1941.
Saturday, June 27, 2020
UBI CAPUT RECLINET
UBI CAPUT RECLINET[1]
‘But the son of man hath not where to lay his head.”
Matthew VIII:20
We do not find Christ claiming
His world, His sky, His sun.
of myriads of creatures
He said He had but one.
And all that earth could proffer
He never called His own,
Who only had a Mother
as dwelling place and throne
She was His sole
possession And here His dear head rested
A little Babe contented
those nine months
set apart (Who was the Lord of earth)
fed at a Mother’s breast,
when He had asked permission until she found a manger
Who had designed creation
to live beneath
her heart. the night she gave Him birth.
and chosen this as best.
The years the Child was growing
in grace and wisdom’s ken
were years of His dependence,
most rich to God and men.
We sense the Man’s nostalgia
for home and hearth and bed:
the Son of Mary has not
whereon to lay His head.
The Gospel tells us plainly
that angry billows swept,
while a very tired Jesus
on a borrowed pillow slept.
With head in thorny helment
He sighed His life’s last breath.
Et inclinato capite ...[2]
He turned toward her in death.
The Friday dark descended
on sin’s most woeful art:
the wounded head was lying
upon the sword-pierced heart.
In borrowed tomb she laid Him
in His last poverty,
till rising He would bring her
His bright humanity.
Who hope to share His glory
for Whom there was no room,
are fashioned as his members
within her spirit’s womb.
The truly poor and lowly
who know this residence
shall live the way of Jesus
in Mary’s providence.
Sister Sada Marie. In: Carmel Bride. 1957.
MARY’S CANTICLE
MARY’S
CANTICLE
Dear Mary walked
along the rugged way
that led to her
fond cousin’s humble home,
‘twas not her wish
for pleasure’s sake to roam
she went serenely
and without delay
her acts of love
to do. What she would say
had never yet been
writ in any tome
on earth’s wide
plains, across the ocean foam.
Sweet Mary raised
her voice to sing and pray.
When Mary sang,
the angels stooped to hear
grand words that
angels ne’er had heard before.
The canticle that
rose from earth below
was filled with
joy so pure and crystal clear,
they knew that one
on earth did God adore
whose soul was
white as freshly fallen snow.
Sister St Stanislas CDP
In:
Robert. 1944
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
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
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
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