Three Poems for Holy Week

Renunciation

They once were mine,
These hands that played
Upon their shrine
Of ebon, tusk;
These hands that sang
Of heroes' wreaths,
The wreaths of maids,
And maidens' plaints.

Now silent, still,
The fingers weave
A chapel roof
Where slow tears drop
And drop and pool
While prayers sigh
And sigh and moan
Into the nave.

They once were mine,
These chastened wings,
As wings once chaste
Now crimsoned, cracked—
Into those hands,
My Lord, my God,
These I commend
That once were mine.


Simon

I once had all the answers
safely nested away.
I once knew who I was
and the path I was to take.
Why, then, did I pause to look?
Why interrupt the evenness
my life had become,
the status quo that beat
so assuredly in the hollow
where my heart was to have been?
But for my curiosity
the answers would still be mine.
One casual glance erased forever
those easy, formulaic solutions
and chanced to rest on the face
that now gives me no rest.
Streaked and stricken, it haunts me still,
gripping my soul with its
unspeakable pain and sorrow
born of a love I did not then
and cannot now fathom.
Yoked with him beneath the wood
I looked into his eyes,
and all my answers were lost,
forever drowned in that cup where
taking dies and
giving is eternally reborn.
No, it was not my choice.
And he was not my Lord.
But I shouldered his yoke
and trod in his steps,
leaving behind
my tidy nest of answers
and the self I knew
to become forever
His.


An Ecstasy

"No greater love than this."

My love, my love,
the unspoken word
Thou givest me who sought Thee,
I shall clasp within
this inner sanctum,
that my soul be branded
with its Cross, girded
with its diadem of grief.
Clear as the light
upon Thy limbs,
vivid as the blood
upon Thy brow—
with this fleeting, searing,
unspoken word
Thou hast answered me.
My love, my love,
Thy face is veiled
with the shadow
of my unworthiness; still,
I know Thy eyes,
laden with blows of ignorance
and arrogance.  Thy thorns
pierceth me through.
I cannot speak nor move,
but only weep; for,
mutely groaning, Thou turnest
Thy face to leave me
once more alone.

My love, my love, I ask you again
yet know too well I cannot bid you back,
nor would I; but live content that you,
o flame of my soul, warm me still.


© Leticia Austria

Good Intentions

     Lent began with every good intention to make the most of it on my part. At Ash Wednesday Mass, as we partook of the Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Christ, I felt a more profound sense than I ever felt before that all of us were being united in and as Christ's mystical body. It was an overwhelming feeling, one of gratitude and certitude.

     The Tuesday before, I asked "Digital Nun" (a.k.a. Sr Catherine) to assign me a Bible book for my Lenten lectio divina (sacred reading). After praying about it, and without knowing anything about me, she assigned to me my favorite of the Pauline letters—Romans! I fairly yelped for joy. For those who aren't familiar with the monastic practice of lectio divina, it is different from other kinds of spiritual reading and study that may involve Biblical commentaries, writings by early Church fathers or saints, etc. Lectio divina is done only with the Scriptures themselves. After asking the Holy Spirit for guidance, you begin to read—slowly, taking in every word with care, without the intention of reading long passages, and without trying to analyze as you go. Inevitably, a word or a phrase will "jump out" at you. This is your precious nugget for the day, to meditate on, ruminate over, say in your mind again and again. Don't strain to understand it. The understanding will come.

     Of course, according to the Church's custom, I'm praying The Stations of the Cross every Friday. When I first returned to the church, the Stations were a favorite devotion of mine and I prayed them every week even outside of Lent. Why I let that practice go, I don't know, but now when I return to it during Lent, it never fails to move me deeply. I know most parishes pray the Stations as a community, usually on Fridays, which can be a very powerful experience, but I like praying them on my own, taking the time I need to meditate on each one.

     Abstinence from meat on Fridays, and fasting in general, is relatively easy at first. But Lent is a long season when one resolves to change one's usual eating habits. I suppose if I had better eating habits to begin with, Lent would be easier!

     I hope my good intentions will hold up through the coming weeks. "The spirit is willing, but ... " We all know the end of that quote!

     As I type this, the teenager next door is playing his stereo loudly enough for me to feel the measured thumping of its mega-bass through my walls. I wonder if he'll ever consider giving up his stereo for Lent?