She moves in tumult; round her lies
The silence of the world of grace;
The twilight of our mysteries
Shines like high noonday on her face
Our piteous guesses, dim with fears,
She touches, handles, sees, and hears.
In her all longings mix and meet;
Dumb souls through her are eloquent;
She feels the world beneath her feet
Thrill in a passionate intent
Through her our tides of feeling roll
And find their God within her soul.
Her faith the awful Face of God
Brightens and blinds with utter light;
Her footsteps fall where late He trod
She sinks in roaring voids of night
Cries to her Lord in black despair,
And knows, yet knows not, He is there.
A willing sacrifice she takes
The burden of our fall within;
Holy she stands; while on her breaks
The lightning of the wrath of sin
She drinks her Saviour's cup of pain,
And, one with Jesus, thirsts again.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
by Msr Robert Hugh Benson