Great you are, oh Lord, and to be praised,
with virtue great, and wisdom beyond count,
yet I, your little creature, slightly dazed,
must nonetheless attempt to scale that mount.
To pour the wind-tossed salt-sea in a cup,
I'd count by far to be a simpler task
than learning how to call you; lift me up--
unless you answer first, I cannot ask.
But you've compelled this thing that can't be done,
making me a vessel of your praise,
just as at your decree the lame will run,
and at your word, the wind itself obeys.
Beneath the wind, you measured out the sea;
make rivers now of worship flow through me.
A sonnet for St. Benedict
5 days ago