Poet
Priest
wrestling with the mist
of questions
that surround the
holy all of us.-
Bewildered, helpless, poor of answer
yet living out the joys of
peeking daffodils-
heads thrust above cold clay,
reaching towards the February sun
and filling slowly out;
some weeks remain before we see
the radiance of even one,-
just one,- to fill the heart’s
deep hungering vessel of
delight.
And so the priest; -it is a February time,
still winter yes, still cold with
so much dark,
but earth is stirring in her bowels,
humanity’s God awake
and things are stirring in His people
that their God only knows.
Will we, together, walk with him
within the Garden of Today,-
and see with poet’s eyes, with hope
that knows the truth
that He Who Is is found in every bush,
in every flower in a human heart,-
snowdrops, perhaps, of hope that lift the
human spirit towards the Warming Son?
(after reading +Leo O’Neill’s “The Living Fire” re 60th Anniversary of Fr. Thomas Curran)
The Wrestler
