The Sisters of St. Francis of Philadelphia

Joy . . .
That bursts and flames,
That pulses
With each living breath that newness takes
Is stilled . . .
Silenced . . .
By a pain that also lives
And breathes,
That throbs
And pulses
With a motion close akin to joy . . .
A joy-pain,
Tender --
Like a bruise that hurts to touch,
Purpled --
By a tightness that cannot find release outside of life.
Then comes a voice --
Quiet,
Gentle --
A look
Whose knowing depth unleashes frozen tears,
Whose touch spells
Words
And worlds
That parting cannot sever,
Whose hand leads
Onward,
Homeward,
Heartward
To a sense of peace,
Whose being is the
Promise
And the presence
Of a gentle God.

© 2007 Sisters of St. Francis of Philadelphia.  Poetry for Prayer:  Volume I.  All rights reserved