The Eucharistic Presence


Struck and crippled by Truth too close, too far,
 This ineffable light conquers my shade:
How have I despised Thee, my God and star?
 To retreat from Thy presence is not sin:
My mind hopes for one image to begin –
 Despite these ubiquitous shades that war –
To describe your efflorescence and win
 Weight of eternity!  Have words been made
To be filled with the grace which Christ’s death paid?

I accept distance in earthly garments,
 Yet toil for the most precious robes.  Amen.
The mercy of God allows meek raiments.
 (Now by blind servants foolishly dismissed
When the fire of all Love their hands has kissed.)
 I must avoid pretentious arguments,
Ideas the devil in my ear has hissed.
 My hope is life and my thought is so when
My heart purely for Our Lord is open.

A white spark is this of divine knowledge!
 Mercy and justice glimmer dilated.
If I am worthy, what gift may I pledge?
 Upon the altar the Gospel’s pages
Are opened, red-ribboned, for the ages:
 My each idle word I must acknowledge.
The Lord’s warning penance encourages.
 With my immediate pride abated,
My sins and justice are contemplated.

The high blue baldachin canopy frames
 Region for the tabernacle’s ember,
Fitting glory its crucifix here claims.
 Aware of sins my hurt conscience complains
 I afflict and not console Our Lord’s pains.
My soul for intimate union yet aims
 With whose bleeding heart, broken, yet rent my chains.
I will not lift up my eyes, remember,
 But as one called as His mercy’s member.

In this art is Our Father glorified –
 The reflections of the fourteen stations
Wherein the Son of Man is deified.
 Here I learn from God as He did from man:
Jesus saw His life mid our evil span,
 How sin’s hold without Him had petrified.
I must imitate Him in all I can.
 In His presence these delineations
Are the Way’s simplest elucidations.

Mass is holy, communion is God – all!
 Devotion is my rule amid His rites,
Sweet suffering for my thoughts not to fall.
 On the altar we hear His “Come to Me!”
How dead if we do not struggle to see.
 With faith, preparation, I hear His call:
“Here in the host I again die for thee.”
 He is mine – I am His – in days and night.
My soul’s forever is a hope He sights.

If I teach of the Eucharist, it is
 By the sacramental presence in me:
Man’s good life, art, and deeds mirror God is.
 Our Lord’s transubstantial divinity
Holds the myriad of infinity.
 If we go to Jesus, eat, we are His.
Hell exists as our own gratuity.
 Thy Alpha, my Omega, truth I see,
A gardener of the holiest tree.

This gift, this indefensible treasure,
 Protects itself in mystery, in rays
Of light supernal to men’s minds.  Yet sure
 Is each incision struck to fertilize
Seeds of knowledge for man to realize.
 Our wills exert fructifying pressure.
Take heed, never Our Lord there criticize.
 A communicant the Church laws obeys.
Obdurate eating blindly spoil their days.

A fence of fiery swords marks my turning,
 Yet I will leave the bright strength of fierceness
To journey to the love for me yearning:
 The Bee, His own, open flowers will choose.
My heart is a rose the Bee shall not lose:
 I have left all my worldly joys burning.
My soul’s aroma His delight imbues.
 O there is an emptying with nearness,
Beauty’s desire in yearning completeness.

The bells are ringing for the noon hour prime.
 Mystical awareness is weary now.
Have I found an image amid this time?
 A rose window’s intricate refraction
Emblazons efflorescent perfection.
 My art is in multitudinous rhyme:
The host develops wonder’s detection.
 One last time, my God, I will turn and bow.
May readers see the splendor You endow.