Our Lady of Sorrows: A Meditation

Our Lady of Sorrows: A Meditation for the Feast.

Each year we come to this celebration like a full stop.

It arrests us, holds us, freezes us as we look inwardly at that scene we think we know so well.

The Woman and the Man,

the Mother and the Son…

and the Cross; always the Cross…

Mother of Sorrows we call her and she is the Mother of Sorrow today, for her Son is not just the God who is Love, but the God who is the Sorrow that Love becomes when it is refused, rejected, even hated…

In a universe of hate and betrayal she will be the one point of pure light, the one point of pure love, the one point of pure sorrow over Sorrow’s pain.

Mother of Compassion we call her. “Cum Passio” is the phrase at the root of this word; to be with the suffering. For all she can do is be with Him in His Suffering and long, as so many mothers have longed over countless ages, to end His suffering, to take His place, to stand in the place of her child.

How many war zones, sick beds, hospitals, prisons have been hallowed by such prayers over the ages?

In a universe of pain and suffering she does not look away, she stands, strong for Him who has become weakness itself in this moment, that the wound at the heart of it all may be healed. She chooses yet again, as surely as she chose in the light of the Angel all those years ago. She utters a Yes once again, this time not with words but with presence. Words without presence mean nothing… but presence, even when it is silent, is louder than thunder.

Mother of the Seven Sorrows we call her. Her life graced and blessed has been punctuated with pain. The pain of the moment and the pain of knowing, darkly at least, what is coming. Seven great sorrows we name, but they are only the beginning. Every mother knows sorrow… the sorrow of knowing that her child is not her own, not really, not in their essence, and that they must be set free to become all that they were meant to be. For her this natural letting go is revealed as a graced begetting of blessedness anew. She will let Him go, she will let Him go to His death and her faith will be the point of light and love that will call Him home to her when first He rises. The prophecy of Simeon, the Flight to Egypt, the first Loss in the Temple, the Meeting on the Road, they will all lead inevitably to the Cross, to holding her dead Son in her arms, to entombing in the womb of the Earth the One she had carried safely in her own womb. And yet, when all will be death and despair she will stand as Woman, as Mother, as the faithful witness, as the one who walks the path of living martyrdom, as the one who, on our behalf, believes past believing; doing this as only a mother can, as only a woman can, winning the victory by the purest kind of faith, unselfish Love.

Our Lady of Sorrows we call her. Ours! Yes she is ours… for in the moment of her greatest pain she says Yes to another, deeper call within her consecration. His last words will bequeath His greatest gift. Present to Him with all her love, with all her still strength and grace she is now ours too. Behold your Mother. This is the generosity of God, of Grace, of Love itself… holding nothing back for itself it gives its greatest gift away. This is the generosity of Mary that she says Yes and accepts us all in the very moment of our greatest rejection of her Son. At the pinnacle of hate she becomes the very first fruits of love, and compassion, and peace, the place where the fruits of the Cross are first tasted, the one through whom grace is liberated and the one in whose immaculate heart, pierced in the piercing of her Son’s the song of our resurrection will first be sung.

Our Lady of Sorrows, Mother of Compassion be with us and help us to carry our own Cross in faith and hope and love.

Pics above: The First is the famous rendering of Our Lady's face based upon the proportions of the Face of the Holy Shroud. The second is by Angela Yerber.

  

Assumption Eve Medicine

 

 

Assumption Eve Medicine

 

For two months turning

the old women,

they who have the knowing,

have watched their charges carefully.

Picked at the height of their power

on the short night, after the long day;

the feast of fire,

that vigils the Baptist’s coming,

when lads and ladies leap

like hares over flames

and look with longing for love,

as children sing the old songs

filled with mystic meaning;

that night they were gathered

as grace and gift

beneath the light of sister Moon,

the Lady’s lamp and plucked

from garden and from forest glade,

by woman’s hands alone.

Now, they, the herbs for healing,

hang in blessed bunches

over the hearth of home,

or kept in kitchens

above the range,

or bound in byres

where the warming breath

of the queen kine keeps them

charmed and waiting

to release their medicine,

the healing pulse

of sister Mother Earth

and Brother Sun’s distilled light

mixed, and married, and greened,

in root, and shoot,

and leaf, and flower.

So they, the healing herbs,

have rested until tonight

when as dusk comes on

and begins to breathe her

autumnal quickening,

these wise ones take them down

and bring them now

to the old places of prayer

to the abbeys and chapels,

to the candled shrines

of the sainted ones,

who themselves bore

the fruit of blessing

and were heaven’s healing,

the salve of souls,

upon the earth.

There they find

the Lady’s chapel,

and lay their leafy burdens

beneath the linen cloths

upon the Altar, there to await

Assumption’s dawn,

and as the Mass bells ring

to have the holy words

said over them that render

them thrice blessed again,

and ready to release their

gentle healing gifts,

blessed once in very being

from first beginning’s breathing,

blessed twice in the burning

touch of Love’s own resurrection light

when all was made anew,

blessed thrice by the Lady’s prayers,

she who is the stock from which

all healing blooms,

and in her gathering home raised all

that grows green upon this good earth

to become heaven’s healing help again;

Eden’s elixir restored in her

and birthed anew as grace,

just as these sainted herbs

ground upon the mortar’s stone

will give their essence up,

and become the holy way

by which their medicine

blesses bodies and anoints

our souls to ready us

in our own time,

for Heaven’s

homing.

Vigil of the Assumption 14th August 2018.

In many places it was the ancient custom for women to gather herbs around the feast of St. John the Baptist (Midsummer) and then bring them to the Churches for blessing on the feast of the Assumption before they were made into medicine for the Winter ahead. The herbs were placed beneath the Altar Cloths and around the Sanctuary before the dawn Mass there to be offered to the Lord, through Mary’s hands, she who is the “first fruits” of His saving love, so as to receive her special prayers of healing and be blessed in their medicinal use in the year ahead.

The Ritual of the Church still provides for such blessings should they be requested.

 

(Pics in this post found as random uncredited images on the web)

 

 

The Wild Nativity

The Wild Nativity.

We have our prophecies too
you know,
we tell our own tales,
and so we knew
to gather there
that night,
ambassadors of our
varied kinds all.
Before old Joseph
came back
with supplies from the inn.
We were there,
hidden in the hay,
up amongst the old beams,
resting by the manger
or drawn there
by the new star
that rose that night
pure and shining
like a snowflake
in its light.
We were there.
We had felt the
old pull of Eden
in our furred and feathered hearts
and felt his long forgotten nearness
once again who walked with us
once in evening light.
Old rivalries forgotten,
or at least put aside tonight,
we sat peacefully
in storied rank
half hidden in the shadows,
lost in awe at her,
settled
so still
in the straw,
her eyes closed
as though present
to a mystery
within.
We were there
waiting for Him
with her.
Let us prepare
His place we said...
Wren moved first,
to pluck her own breast
scattering the softest down
amongst the rough straw
and sparrows followed
weaving moss and herbs
as mattress
as Owl, and old Crow
and Hawk directed.
"I will keep him warm",
said Robin,
reddening his breast
while fanning flame alight.
"We will sing to him
when at last He comes"
said the little ones,
four footed and furred
and long tailed too,
piping in their tiny voices
choiring high as mouse
and vole, rabbit
and hedgehog all
assembled there,
followed by fox's clear tenor
and Badger's earthy baritone
to sing their
benediction of
wild welcome.
And then he came.
How? As sun shines sudden through a cloud breaking blindingly!
How? As the first rays of dawn mark that moment when night becomes a new day.
How? As a scenting nose is suddenly aware of a change in the air.
He came.
More than that we will not say.
Ours alone was that privilege to see and we will guard it down the ages...
And Mary looked upon us with love
and thanked us all
and in her smile and words
we heard old Eve laugh
at last again.
And then there was noise,
and people,
so many people,
and we withdrew
as we always do
to the shadows
again.
But not before He smiled at us
a smile of long recognition
graced and grateful
both.
After the shepherds left,
and their piping drumming din
went off amongst the crowds.
After Bethlehem finally became still.
After old Joseph nodded off
to his Angeled dreams.
We were there
and came forth again
from the shadows
to dwell with them,
our new Adam and Eve,
and heard then
our Gospel
preached to us,
who are already
of His kingdom
and always were.
We made our covenant
with Him then,
to be the first apostles
of His love
and in
our being blessed
and shared with you
to remind you
of the innocence
you lost
and He renews
if you would but follow
our
wild way to
Eden's light
again.
We have been
forgotten now
as shepherds, kings
and crowds
followed,
but not by Him,
who from his mother's arms
smiled past them all at us
hiding in the shadows
there.
And we would later
meet Him
in the desert
and the garden,
there
we will be with Him
again,
for we have
our prophecies too
you know,
and tell our tales
too,
whispering
to each other
across the woods
and hills,
on this night
each year
as you toll your bells
and sing,
we look to the skies
and
remember;
we
were
there.

Christmas Blessings to you and yours this Holy Night +

(Pic is of The Christmas Star by Lynn Bywaters)

O Emmanuel: A meditation on the seventh of the Great O Antiphons of Advent.

O Emmanuel!

You who are God with us,

Come and deliver your people!

All holy one

who dwells higher

than the Cherubim,

adored by the living fire of the

Seraphim in love

so exultant it enflames all

it touches,

you who hide behind

the cloud and thunder of Sinai,

lest we would die

in awe,

descend now

and reveal at last

your face to us

our Saviour!

O Emmanuel!

Name by which

we would never

have named you,

so awesome is your mystery;

and yet, this name you choose

and place upon your

prophet who speaks it as sign

through lips of flame.

Descending into our nature

so to raise it on high;

our God above,

beyond,

before

you are,

yet now revealed as

with us

in our every moment,

as in your incarnation

eternity weds time

and heals the long broken

human heart

consecrating the cosmic 

temple anew.

O Emmanuel!

Love incarnate

and light from light!

You fill all things,

and all things 

have their being in you,

yet you choose us

for your family

and come to dwell in us

through the mystery 

of a mother’s love!

For nine moons

at play in that sacred pool,

ever unrippled 

and undisturbed,

you hallow

the waters of the womb 

again

and in its sacred darkness 

dance,

making of the one who builds you

from her own blood

and feeds you on her own milk

the first tabernacle from

which all of us 

will feed!

O Emmanuel!

Hear us on this seventh

and most sacred night,

as we complete 

the circle of 

our sacred invocations,

closing at last the wreath 

of evergreen time,

and gather once again

at star-rise to call you

from the heavens

and down the winding roads

of our long hoping

to be born in us again!

O hear our song

sung from the heart

of humbled humanity

that we, who have in you

our very God with us,

may learn the wisdom from

your prophet promised

and thrice holy mother,

to bow our heads

and enter Bethlehem’s barn

and there be with the One

who in love’s divine mystery

is always and ever

with us.

“O Emmanuel, our king and our lawgiver,

the hope of the nations and their Saviour:

Come and save us, O Lord our God!”

O Rising Sun, O Oriens: A meditation on the fifth of the Great O Antiphons of Advent

O Rising Sun!

On the day of the deepest dark

we call you!

Come to us O promised light!

Gazing upon the eastern edge

of the world

we thrill,

as from our long benighted being

the first dayspring spark is cast,

and a red dawn heralds

a conqueror’s coming!

O Rising Sun!

You who are light from light,

scatter upon us

the uncreated light by which our dull eyes

may even now behold

the dawn of your presence!

Illume us as lanterns,

kindle us as fires,

breathe your flame upon us as beacons

in a world so cold

and a winter of the heart so dark

we oft forget the dawn that has come,

is come,

will come again,

needing our annual remembering

to rekindle our rebirth in you

O Son!

O Rising Sun!

We long for your dawn

down the dark and ancient ways of ancestry

Feeling in our old yearning

the gathering of ghostly generations

who followed their deepest knowing,

that map,

long inscribed upon the centre

of our being

but written in a sacred script

unknown to eyes lost to Eden’s light.

For they,

So desperate for the

warming of a presence

they remembered

but did not know

wrought stone,

and marked ways,

and offered song,

and told story,

and gathered green,

and even spent

blood,

to charm back an earthly sun

while truly seeking

for the Divine Son

who would warm

the winter of our heart

and make of Himself

the sacrifice that brings the light back

for an eternal day  

O Rising Sun!

We call you by our evening invocation!

Kindling our vesper candles and vigil lights,

wrapping the wreath of time

in flames of rose and purple,

we sing now the soul song of

the Lady of the Light.

She whose heart blessed beacon

shone so bright in love,

it drew you from

the realms of everlasting day

to that sealed chamber in which,

with quickening touch,

you, the dayspring and the morning star

both

bestowed your spark of glory

and found your home,

issuing forth

as Word and Light

to bestow the blessing

of a dawn from our Midwinter night,

that re-orients us to righteousness,

and reveals the Light beyond all night

Bethlehem born and blazing

as the true and victorious

Son.

"O Rising Sun!

Splendour of light eternal and sun of righteousness:

Come and enlighten those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death!"

Our Lady of the Solstice

Lady of the Solstice

At the moment
of
the
deepest dark
and,
at
the sharp point
of the
longest night,
at such distance from
dawn
that we groan
beneath
the burden of
being,
and touch within
ourselves
only
the winds of winter
and the
wild longing
where
light
is only a memory
long lost
and left behind in
summer sun;
then we,
suddenly,
and just for
the merest of moments,
are hushed
into silence,
as the turning
of the
ancient
wheels of wonder
stop,
and sun and stars
all,
still their divinely
directed dance
and take their
yearly yearned for
deep remembering
rest,
like lovers suddenly
still,
when struck
by desire's reverie;
or dancers,
pulsing with passion,
awaiting the next
beat
of beauty's music
to liberate life within.
They,
our elder siblings
of the sky,
recall in
their
sacred stillness
that moment
when
once,
just once,
their fiery song,
sung since
first
divine kindling,
was
paused,
hushed,
stilled,
stopped;
just
once,
long ago,
so as
to
listen to
a new note
joined to
the
great hymn of gratitude
that all
offer
simply by their very being.
For in that
moment
of their listening
was revealed
she who is
our true solstice.

The Woman,
that moment of
perfect stillness
between
divine in-breathing
and creation's
exhalation of excelsis.
So they watched,
as she who is the
stillpoint
of
the dance of story,
and the sanctuary
where
myth becomes flesh,
then,
before angelic emissary,
dropped the pebble of her
yes,
in its utter simplicity,
longed for through the countless
ages of agony,
into the pool of our pain.

Behold the Solstice of the Lord…
Be it done unto me according to His Word…

Looking deep they
saw its
ripples now run to the
edges of existence
trembling them with
the promise
of a new
Spring.

And the Story became flesh…
And dwelt amongst us…

This young girl,
this Lady of light.
who is our solstice.
She,
the perfect place
of stillness,
so attuned
to the coming of the Light
that in her
all
creation stills,
the old cycle of sin
is broken
and,
even the deep dark
of despair
must yield
to glow of dawn.

She,
the light that glows before
the rising Sun,
heralded by Robin
and Wren
and fluting Blackbird,
She, like that blessed moment
when Sun and Moon
both
hang in the deep blue together
and bow as they pass
gentling our hearts
and
drawing us from dreams
to welcome
the advent of the One
who
IS
Love's Light
and eternal Word both,
spoken now into time’s renewed turning
by the Yes of one who
holds
within her heart
the perfect emptiness of Love.

Treasuring in
the holy dark of
her womb the hearth
where Spring's spark is
kindled
and brightens with beauty
as a
first place of
promised Easter exhalation
the cave of
rebirth;
in which
eternity and time
are married,
and infinity will wed itself
forever
to clay's embrace.

Here, in this
sacred solstice place,
Eve's aching
is healed,
and
here,
Adam's sin
undone,
as from the dry root
of the
sundering tree
a new shoot rises
at the word of
one
whose whole being
is Yes
whose whole being
is
Love,

And so,
yearly
we sit,
rooting ourselves
once again
in Mother Earth's embrace,
and while looking ever upwards
we find the still point
of the skies
and yet
inwardly gaze
into
the light of story
long-kindled
against the cold of winter,
and so become
re-minded,
re-hearted,
re-souled,
by she who is our solstice,
whose self-forgetting
Yes
brought to us
the turning of the light
and blessed us
all
like barren trees
brought to beauty
by a sudden
anointing
of
new snow.

O Radix Jesse! A meditation on the third of the Great O Antiphons of Advent:

O Radix Jesse, O Root of Jesse!

We cry out to you O Root from which all springs,

first fecundity of the Divine!

Come and restore our fruitfulness so long shrivelled and sin wintered!

For we, obsessed only

with the flower that blooms

and is gone so quickly,

spill our tears upon the soiled surface

of the fading petal

and forget the virtue of the root!

O Root of Jesse!

Help us lest we forget that strong growth,

must come from a strong stock,

to know a flower that would

outlast the frost

must come from deep roots,

long buried,

and anchored in

the warm womb

of Mother Earth

resting down the long

ages in the divine dark!

O Root of Jesse!

Speak to us of Spring!

Of that new life you bring,

a quickening felt through all creation,

a gospeled spark,

begun in the deep pulse of a seed

now planted

in that gateless garden

so long prepared!

O Root of Jesse!

You are the point of origin

where all begins,

where from eternity time blooms;

where then comes forth from

Now;

until that sprouting moment

where all begins in you anew!

Save us for your harvest of hope!

O Root of Jesse!

Mixing your luminous seed

with the deep humus

of our muddied being

you bring forth new life!

Heal us

and raise us from our barren sleep

of sin and self

inviting us to bloom again

as first intended and

yet more so than even this

for now,

our roots entwined,

grafted to your Divine stock,

made at last again

one people, one plant, one garden

in which you will walk, delight and dwell.

O Root of Jesse!

We call to you in our evening song

as Adam did,

our gardener father who knew the names of all

and saw your face reflected in his own

until our bloom withered in his hand

plucked from its sustaining root

by selfish desire.

O Root of Jesse!

We sing you our Magnificat,

first sung by Eve our earth Mother,

long silenced since the sundering of her stock,

until she who is Eve and Jesse’s daughter too

became the place of planting

where you

divine root, and seed, and stock,

now born in time and lulled by her hymn

to sleep before your sorrows

renew in us your

love so radical that we are again

delivered into Eden, rooted in

peace,

God grafted into grace.

O Root of Jesse, standing as a sign among the peoples;

before you kings will shut their mouths,

to you the nations will make their prayer:

Come and deliver us, and delay no longer.

O Adonai! A meditation on the second of the Great O Antiphons of Advent

O Adonai!
We cry to you across the endless ages!
We call you by the name for the Name,
that only the One beyond all names may bear, O Hashem!
We seek from you our own exodus
from the cold and hard world
we have built within ourselves,
and hurt so many others by.

O Adonai!
We yearn for your deliverance!
Free us from the slavery to that false self
that is but a shadow of our souls
Let us put off the sandals that insulate us
from the deep throbbing heart of Mother Earth
and step into your Holy Presence
which is everywhere,
and there,
bow down before
the wonder of it all.
O Adonai!
Send to us the Angel of the Burning Bush!
May he call out to us,
so lost in our own thoughts
and worries
and dreams
that we may
at last
remember
the holiness of the ground
we stand on in every place
and at every time
for our where and when
rests always in
your divine
Now.
O Adonai!
Draw us to yourself, O Holy One!
Lead us on that pilgrim path
from the depths of our selfishness
to the heights of the mountain of compassion
and emptiness.
Bid us enter into the cloud,
that dissembles thought
and pierces the proud heart
so to open the soul to the
truest of loves.
O Adonai!
Let us hear the thunder in the void!
There at the summit and centre of our souls
inscribe your new Law of Love
upon the tablets of our hearts
in letters of divine fire!
O Adonai!
At hour of sunset
and star rise we call to you!
Hear the chant of your Church,
echoing the long and faithful love
of Abraham, and Isaac and their storied
generations.
Listen to these ancient invocations!
Look not on us,
nor on our readiness,
Look instead on she who is,
the Lady of Israel,
the Daughter of Zion,
the Queen of Heaven!
She who is
our burning bush ,
always aflame
but ever unconsumed,
who holds within her
sacred womb the mystery
of the Name made flesh!
Hear us sing her new song of deliverance
Hear the mystery magnified in woman
who in that holiest of births
brings about
our deliverer,
and invites
our exodus
home.
O Adonai!
"Magnificat anima mea Dominum!"
We cry with her,
and in her holy
burning words
we hear the song of her people,
our ancestors of spirit,
echoed anew:
"Ashira L’Adonai ki ga’oh ga’ah!"
And so we sing
with all the generations
this Advent night!
"O Adonai,
and leader of the House of Israel,
who appeared to Moses
in the fire of the burning bush
and gave him the law on Sinai:
Come and redeem us
with an outstretched arm!"

Reunion of the Mother and Son: Easter Dawn

It is often asked where the risen Christ was when the women, and later the apostles, got to the garden... Mystics and Mothers (who are often the same thing) have always known the answer.
After all, where would any son go first who had put his mother through so much?
The following lines express this hidden and unknown joy of Mary perfectly...
May it be your meditation this Easter morning.

 Reunion:

The stone rolled off,

And no one saw it.

Her heart was jubilant

And full of ecstasy.

She knew that a sea of joy

Would flow out of the sea of sorrow;

Although it would

Recede to sorrow again

She could remember

Being born in the midst of

God the Father,

And being created

Before creation.

Did She truly watch

Light come out of darkness?

Did she see shores

Come into being?

It seemed you could play

See-saw on a wave!!

She never moved.

Quietly and closed in a room,

She sat behind a door

That no one dared to open,

And looked upon the streets

Of her beloved Jerusalem,

Watching the crowds

Hurrying hither and yon;

Watching, and not seeing at all;

For the sea of sorrow

Was receding

Into the desert

Where seas go;

And she was playing

See-saw on a wave

Made by God.

She knew the Pieta was Piety.

The sorrow in her face

Was sorrow of the past.

Upon it lingered still

The shadow of the cross

And Him upon it;

But when her hands

Had touched His face,

Which the disciples thought was

Dead,

She felt the warmth

Pulsating through it.

How could God die?

He touched death

For an instant –

Abolished it forever,

And it became

An angel of surpassing beauty;

For whom men of faith

Would wait with bated breath;

Death hasn’t icy fingers at all

They are warm –

The fingers of the angel of love.

The ice, the cold, the decay

That is for men of earth to see;

For their eyes are not conditioned

To the resplendent state of the

Soul.

She knew

He was not dead forever;

Not one bone would decay.

He slept, quietly, obediently,

In the tomb;

For He was obedient

Even after death.

But when they rolled

The stone before the tomb

He was free to roam;

To come, to go

To be

Where all those years

He could not be

Or could show Himself.

Out of the tomb

To hell,

To bring joyous news;

Then, like a man

Would visit

In a pilgrimage of love,

The places that made His heart

Beat faster

As a man.

When She had held His cold-warm

Body

She trembled

With the joy of it –

Knowing He would come

To visit Her first

The Magdalene would be the next

To see Him.

So She sat alone

With the door closed –

They thought to grieve

But no! To wait.

Who was there to see

Or hear what passed?

Who was there to know

The glory

Of music born in that room?

The Music of His voice and Hers

Mingling as voices

Never did before.

“Tonight is the night

Of my first unknown joy.”

“It is just as well

That men count them as seven;

For how else could they count

My joys or sorrows?

There are not enough stars

In heaven

To add them up –

Seven will do nicely.”

“Come

Share in one of my unknown joys.”

“He came to Me

In my chamber,

My Son!

My Lover!

And overflowing rapture

Condensed in utter ecstasy

Filled Me again.

“It was as if

I had conceived anew,

For all my being

Felt His coming.

The room pulsated

With the beat

Of angels’ wings

But even the seraph’s eyes

Were sealed.

Not even they

Could look then

Upon the Mother and the Son

And so they chanted

Alleluias.

“Did you know that I,

The first stigmatic,

Had the wounds?

It happened simply,

Perhaps He was two or three,

Perhaps, I am not sure.

It is hard

for one who encompasses

eternity

to think in time.

One day He was playing

At My feet,

And suddenly

Like a little swallow

He kissed each foot.

The wounds began to throb.

“At seven or eight

He kissed each palm,

Lingeringly.

And I knew

The feel of nails.

“He came once

In early spring,

On a shiny sunny day.

His hands were full of flowers.

He sat on a small stool

And wove a crown for Me.

I knew the weight

Of thorns

Upon my head.

“In May, in your land,

Children repeat His gesture.

It brings back the memory

Of thorns, sweet, deep, sharp.

“He was a suckling at My breast.

One night,

Somehow, His face fell

From My nipples;

And His warm mouth touched my side.

Was it a kiss?

Was it a lance?

From that blest night

The pain was there

Never to go.

“So you must know

My unknown joy,

The rendezvous We hels –

My Son and I –

The night they thought

They had sealed His tomb

So tight.

Where do you think

He went?

He went to the place

He loves most in Palestine –

The room of His Mother.

“Wonders will never cease!!

The room was aflame;

For where My Son is,

There is My spouse,

The Crimson Dove

Who holds Me tight.

The angels’ wings

Made melody of strings

As they chanted their

Alleluias

In a circle of bliss,

And He sat at My feet

And I looked into His eyes –

Above to below.

“The Crimson Dove

Brought the flame of love;

And the Father was there

Unseen, jubilant, joyous,

Taking delight in His Son.

And as He did,

The Crimson Dove grew,

And a flame covered the earth.

Alleluia

Alleluia

Alleluia.

“The stone was still tight

On the tomb of My child

Who was with Me.

“I give you the Paschal gift.

Put out your hands

And take it to your heart

This is the night of joy!

Alleluia!

I am an

Alleluia

In the flesh

Tonight.”

(Lines from Catherine deHueck Doherty's epic poem: "Our Lady's Unknown Mysteries.)