Poem for the Feast of the Stigmata of St. Francis

Today is the feast of the Stigmata of St. Francis. It commemorates the apex moment of Francis' earthly spiritual journey when, in answer to his prayer to feel as much as possible both the compassion of Christ for His creation and the pain He went through upon the Cross to redeem it, he became the first person in history to receive the Sacred Stigmata, the visible imprints of the five wounds of Christ upon his body. Many people are unaware that this took place on the Feast of the Holy Cross while Francis was keeping the "Lent of St. Michael", 40 days of prayer and meditation to prepare for the Feast of the Archangel under whose protection he had placed the Order. This connection with St. Michael led me to a poem, (in a vaguely medieval style), some years ago.

The Lay of St. Michael and Brother Francis

Angelic being whose nature is fire,

whose song cried loudest and star brightest flamed.

Born as a spark from the light of God’s radiance

to the Glory of One in Threeness revealed.

First to defend the honour of Him; whose

silence allows all accept or complain,

first one to honour the plan then put forward

of dying, and rising to glory again.

One who was then made Captain of Heaven,

One who was then made Weigher of Souls.

One who was then made Guardian of Gates,

Keeper of Keys, and Master of Rolls.

Lord of the Cherubim, Master of Seraphs,

all the nine choirs bow low before him,

who bowed lowest first, to the Light that dims never

in silence surrounded from last until first.

He was made bearer of Heaven’s fell sword,

emblazoned it is with name, “Verbum Dei”.

He was made bearer of the shield of the just,

whose name is remembered as “Gloria Dei”.

He is the one whose bright helm is crowned

with star of bright fire in Tau shape arrayed

He is the keeper of Heaven’s great seal

the one whom the saints do call when afraid.

He bears the Rod and the Orb of  Shekinah

standing aside the throne of their Ward.

His is the voice that rang out with the challenge,

“Who could ever be like unto the Lord!”

All this is given in glory to him,

Heaven’s great prince, who first saw in the Light,

Better to serve both truth and humility

than to crawl for the dark one, who once was the bright.

This our dear father, Francis the Brother,

smallest of those, who account themselves small,

knew as he rendered praise and thanksgiving,

for to arms like St. Michael, he heeded the call.

Of him did he learn the way to be humble,

the grace to begin and accept being sent.

To him he accorded the honour of fasting,

to him he ascribed the gift of a Lent.

And in that sweet time, to his honour and glory

Francis, in prayer aloft on the mount,

sought for a share in Love’s light so redeeming

the pains of the Cross as joy he would count.

Then given the grace of a sight so ecstatic

he burned with a fire that never would end

For stamped was he then, with those wounds called stigmatic

sealed as a Seraph, made kin to his friend.

And later he went to that throne long prepared

and there he doth sit, at Heaven’s bright board.

Where Michael and Francis to ages unending, 

both joyfully sing, “Is aught like the Lord!”