Sacred Heart

                                               Here is our peace.  Here is our final rest.      
                                                  Here, as a trusting lamb, John lay his head
                                                  When Christ forever His apostles fed.
                                               Martyrs suffering sin’s fatal contest
                                               Are within this Heart on the Cross impressed,
                                                 As if thrust by the Roman lance that bled
                                                 The Lamb of God, already—never—dead.
                                               His Heart, so wounded, ours forever blessed.

                                               Why, then, am I allured by sin’s evil?
                                                  Must I, Jesus, perpetually choose
                                               You, as my Lord God, over the devil?
                                                  My final “yes” in death You will not lose.

                                               But I may here suffer Love’s sharp stitches—
                                                  Suffering, my heart—His own enriches.