A priest preached a homily at the Seminary on the link between the Cross, Ground Zero and the Mass. It was powerful. After the homily, during the Eucharistic prayer, the entire ‘painting’ of images and words from his homily gently filtered through the words, “by sending down your spirit upon them like the dew fall.” The stark contrast between the violence of the Passion and the quiet gentleness of the dew fall seemed to birth from the Eucharist a strange song in me…
…it sparkled into a poem yet again, and I venture now to (yet again) share a poem of faith hoping it will do some good for some soul.
Word fallen far from on High
sunk sudden deep in virgin clay,
answer to our aching, groaning sigh,
longing night that pines for day –
O Strange Triumph! Seed crushed,
planted, nay, Cast down into rugged soils;
God-Speech all-gagged, all-hushed,
sinister hand hammering ancient toils.
There was Life spiked, hung, bled dry
dyeing mortal skulls in immortal Crimson hue
as there on Rock was God-flesh left to die:
Wood ablaze, soaked in Dawn’s freshest Dew.