Dying on my lips, the words are born
out from their comforting longings to a new
and terrible nearness. If tomorrow the trumpeting morn
shone a sudden restoration, what would I do?
Too long I have wished for some shadowy vision of light,
neglecting to wonder what would be the cost.
Am I even fit for a world that's been made right?
Too much I depend on things which must be lost
if all would be made well. Here as things are
I must slowly learn to live in such a way
as not to need to move so very far
if heaven came to earth. Dear Christ, I pray,
teach me to live without my fingers curled
around the pleasures of an unjust world.
A sonnet for St. Benedict
5 days ago