Saturday, April 7, 2012

In the grey damp I sat,
Just ris’n from moods whereat
            I could find cause for shame,
My red eyes lit on the thorn,
And the skullcap He had borne
When alone and forlorn,
Souls like me did him maim.

And I wept fresh that this
World He begot in bliss
            Had been my foul accomplice.
Would that the elements
Not rendered obedience,
But in holy dissonance,
My urge on them dismissed.

Then flashed through that drab bush,
In a gold, crimson rush,
            And lit upon the thorn,
He stared at me with redd’ned face,
The sign of his proud place,
For he ‘gainst thorns so base,
            Wrestled with their sharp scorn.

His small beak could not clasp
Wood like fangs of an asp,
            Yet, impassioned he strove,
And bloodied his white face,
And hence no rain can chase,
From his sweet head that trace,
Of his small act of love.

Finch, gratias ago!
For penitents to know,
            That not all creatures did
Abandon their Master,
Is a healing plaster,
In their sad dark, an aster,
            That ne’er was all rev’rence hid.


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Warsaw, Poland
Domine, spero quia mundum vicisti. Lord, I trust that Thou hast overcome the world. Panie, ufam, żeś pokonał świat.
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