Irma Dillard rscj  |
Contemplating the Pierced Heart
As we look upon him whom they have pierced,
we see the pain of love
vulnerable to the violence of a spear's thrust, tearing open a wound
whose lips speak only of love:
the crucified one lifted up on a tree,
for God is a lover.
But beyond, we see the everlasting arms,
upholding him, enfolding him
with the tenderness of compassion,
for the one who knows Jesus
sees the Father in his heart:
the wisdom of God lifted up in glory, for God is love.
Yet more, from within that open heart,
we see the flowing of this love,
living waters gushing forth,
transparent and pure,
teeming with life yet mingled with blood-red wine,
the fruit of a death-wound
centred by the point of a lance:
The Spirit of Love.
As the waters flow, fanned by the Spirit's breath,
a secret stirring of love flares up
into a living flame, creating a passion of love,
waters of fire, swirling and leaping,
in tongues outreaching, catching fire
to a world becoming radiant:
Love creating love.
Pamela Hayes rscj + 1991
Province of England – Wales from The Heart is a Sacred Space by Pamela Hayes rscj,
published by St. Paul's UK, 1955. Quoted with permission.
Beat of the Pulse of Time
The beat of the pulse of time
opened the wound in the side of a man.
Compassion was born
Compassion is born
The wounds of the world
war and dissension
rape and starvation
are given new hope of something being done.
Compassion was working
Compassion is working
In the name of that Love
that broke open His Heart
so healing may happen
so healing does happen.
We carry this treasure in our earthernware jars
in breaking our lives we share it with others
so compassion can work
so healing is done
in receiving the other
in bearing their pain.
Turning our hearts and turning our hearts
in the source of that Love
in the pulse of that Love
in the throb of that Heart.
Anne Hine rscj
Province of England – Wales
Resurrection
Resurrection always happens
Suddenly without warning.
Grace gathers gradually
Exploding into a genesis of gaiety.
Like the Gulf of Mexico meandering to land
Until its waters crash on the shore.
Or like the oak tree in the front yard
Predictable yet always miraculous.
When in spring new green burnishes the branches
Suddenly without warning
An angel blows her trumpet
And bursts of gold appear.
Resurrection is about pushing stones away,
making room for the stranger,
sharing breakfast on the shore.
Angels in dazzling garments ask:
“Why do you seek the living among the dead?”
Burial cloths are rolled up
And left in an empty tomb.
Women are stopped on their way to Jerusalem
and sent instead to Galilee with good news.
When a resurrection happens,
Walls expand,
Barriers vanish
And, always, hearts enlarge.
Jan Dunn rscj
Province of the United States
Her Name is Mine
When I had wished that I could have her name
Which Magdalene was it that I had meant?
Was it the weeping woman of ill-fame
Kissing Your feet, anointing them with scent,
Forgiven much because her love was great?
Or the Mary, sitting by Your side, intent
Upon Your word? Or the one whose fate
You had redeemed – once the prey and lair
Of seven demons? Or the one who waits
To offer You her best: spikenard, rich and rare,
In an alabaster jar? Indeed,
Something of each I pray that I will share
Today – and pray that some day, I too, freed
From my besetting sins, will somehow share
The steadfast love with which, in Your own need
A Magdalene stood by and suffered there
Along with You. And through that nightmare time –
To watch the pain of those we love can tear
The heart – to grow into that searing yet sublime
Recognition on an Easter day
And thence be sent, singing the joyful news always.
Ananda Amritmahal rscj
Province of India
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