Deacon Dan Wright

A Poem from the Night

Occasionally I like to add a favorite poem as the day's blog post.  I have chosen Joseph Mary Plunkett's (1817-1916) "I saw the sun at midnight rising red."  Actually, I know Plunkett better for his "Hound of Heaven," which bears a special significance to me. However, today's selection spoke to me in that it is obviously the product of a night spent in prayer. I suppose I feel a certain kinship to those who stay up late. From time to time I'll include some of my own poetry, but for today I offer this deep meditation on the love of God.

I SAW the Sun at midnight, rising red,
Deep-hued yet glowing, heavy with the stain
Of blood-compassion, and I saw It gain
Swiftly in size and growing till It spread
Over the stars; the heavens bowed their head
As from Its heart slow dripped a crimson rain,
Then a great tremor shook It, as of pain—
The night fell, moaning, as It hung there dead.
O Sun, O Christ, O bleeding Heart of flame!
Thou giv’st Thine agony as our life’s worth,
And mak’st it infinite, lest we have dearth
Of rights wherewith to call upon thy Name;
Thou pawnest Heaven as a pledge for Earth,
And for our glory sufferest all shame.

The Hound of Heaven

Occasionally I'll be posting my favorite poems, and the following is one of them.  I first discovered it in the appendix of my breviary many years ago.  If you ever think you've been given a tough penance, I once knew of a reformed alcoholic who was given the penance of having to read this every day for 30 days... trust me, it happened.  Anyhow, I thought I'd share one of my best liked poems with you.

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

I fled Him, down the arches of the years;

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears

I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

Up vistaed hopes I sped;

And shot, precipitated,

Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,

From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.

But with unhurrying chase,

And unperturbèd pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

They beat -- and a voice beat

More instant than the Feet --

"All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."

I pleaded, outlaw-wise,

By many a hearted casement, curtained red,

Trellised with intertwining charities;

(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,

Yet was I sore adread

Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.)

But, if one little casement parted wide,

The gust of his approach would clash it to :

Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.

Across the margent of the world I fled,

And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,

Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars ;

Fretted to dulcet jars

And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.

I said to Dawn : Be sudden -- to Eve : Be soon ;

With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over

From this tremendous Lover--

Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see !

I tempted all His servitors, but to find

My own betrayal in their constancy,

In faith to Him their fickleness to me,

Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.

To all swift things for swiftness did I sue ;

Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.

But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,

The long savannahs of the blue ;

Or whether, Thunder-driven,

They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven,

Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet :--

Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.

Still with unhurrying chase,

And unperturbèd pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,

Came on the following Feet,

And a Voice above their beat--

"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."

I sought no more that after which I strayed,

In face of man or maid ;

But still within the little children's eyes

Seems something, something that replies,

They at least are for me, surely for me !

I turned me to them very wistfully ;

But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair

With dawning answers there,

Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.

"Come then, ye other children, Nature's -- share

With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship ;

Let me greet you lip to lip,

Let me twine with you caresses,

Wantoning

With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses,

Banqueting

With her in her wind-walled palace,

Underneath her azured daïs,

Quaffing, as your taintless way is,

From a chalice

Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring."

So it was done :

I in their delicate fellowship was one --

Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.

I knew all the swift importings

On the wilful face of skies ;

I knew how the clouds arise

Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings ;

All that's born or dies

Rose and drooped with ; made them shapers

Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine ;

With them joyed and was bereaven.

I was heavy with the even,

When she lit her glimmering tapers

Round the day's dead sanctities.

I laughed in the morning's eyes.

I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,

Heaven and I wept together,

And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine ;

Against the red throb of its sunset-heart

I laid my own to beat,

And share commingling heat ;

But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.

In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.

For ah ! we know not what each other says,

These things and I ; in sound I speak--

Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.

Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth ;

Let her, if she would owe me,

Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me

The breasts o' her tenderness ;

Never did any milk of hers once bless

My thirsting mouth.

Nigh and nigh draws the chase,

With unperturbèd pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic instancy ;

And past those noisèd Feet

A Voice comes yet more fleet --

"Lo ! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me."

Naked I wait thy Love's uplifted stroke !

My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,

And smitten me to my knee ;

I am defenceless utterly.

I slept, methinks, and woke,

And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.

In the rash lustihead of my young powers,

I shook the pillaring hours

And pulled my life upon me ; grimed with smears,

I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years --

My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.

My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,

Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.

Yea, faileth now even dream

The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist ;

Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist

I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,

Are yielding ; cords of all too weak account

For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.

Ah ! is Thy love indeed

A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,

Suffering no flowers except its own to mount ?

Ah ! must --

Designer infinite !--

Ah ! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it ?

My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust ;

And now my heart is as a broken fount,

Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever

From the dank thoughts that shiver

Upon the sighful branches of my mind.

Such is ; what is to be ?

The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ?

I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds ;

Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds

From the hid battlements of Eternity ;

Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then

Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again.

But not ere him who summoneth

I first have seen, enwound

With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned ;

His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.

Whether man's heart or life it be which yields

Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields

Be dunged with rotten death ?

Now of that long pursuit

Comes on at hand the bruit ;

That Voice is round me like a bursting sea :

"And is thy earth so marred,

Shattered in shard on shard ?

Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me !

"Strange, piteous, futile thing !

Wherefore should any set thee love apart ?

Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said),

"And human love needs human meriting :

How hast thou merited --

Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot ?

Alack, thou knowest not

How little worthy of any love thou art !

Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,

Save Me, save only Me ?

All which I took from thee I did but take,

Not for thy harms,

But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.

All which thy child's mistake

Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home :

Rise, clasp My hand, and come !"

Halts by me that footfall :

Is my gloom, after all,

Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ?

"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,

I am He Whom thou seekest !

Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest me."

The Night Visit

In the presence of the Blessed Sacrament
Prayer seems much easier. The words are clearer.
I come with a heart full but aprehensive, not really knowing
The right words to say. Kneeling before the
Tabernacle a heartfelt conversation
Finds a way to pour forth.

Communication is truest when there is
Reciprocity.  This much I know although
What my ears hear in this moment amounts only to silence.

Before arriving at the church I tell myself that
A long heart-to-heart conversation feels overdue.
Over the years the pages of my breviary have
Grown crumpled at the Invitatory and the morning
And evening canticles.  Yet I recall days when I owned no
Prayer book, only a heart longing to say O’ God
Hear the words of my longing.

It is you for whom I long await O’ Lord.
So I arrive at a dark and empty church. The door locked for the
Night.  I search for the right key in the darkness.  Finding it, I go to the 
Chapel and kneel before a candle lit stone Tabernacle, knowing
That within it lies a presence ready to greet me, and so I pour out
My heart the best I can in a fashion that I have grown to know
Somewhat less in the busyness of my life.

In the solitude I hear the unlocked door open and the sound of footsteps
Growing closer.  Looking up I recognize a familiar deacon who
Enters and offers a holy greeting. 

With the key to the Tabernacle in hand he removes
The monstrance which hold the Blessed Sacrament and places it in the open.

As I gaze upon the presence of God before me words flow easier and
I find the grace to whisper just what I need to say.  Effortlessly the words sound
More like the sentences of a devotion written a half-century past.
I leave with a sense of true reciprocity having occurred in the night visit.

Holy Wednesday Anticipating

Holy Wednesday arrives as a midweek
Moment of anticipation born of waiting
For the most special three days of the year.

We take this moment as a passive pause to
Reflect while readying ourselves for the torrent
Of Spirit that comes only with the celebration

Of Easter. We call the week holy though too
Often we are so pressed by the duties and
Responsibilities of the week that we fail to

Consider its special contemplative giftedness.
In a week that is sacred we expect that God
Desires for us to open our hearts to his voice.

Surely the sound of God’s own voice, a sound
Uncommon to human ears, transcending
Man and woman’s language reaches within to

Find the deepest recesses of the human
Heart this week, and  he speaks to us in words
Rich and full of meaning. So full that they

Hold the power to push us forward--following
The Galilean even to what awaits him on Friday
Afternoon--our hearts unspoken desire being

To unite with him as one. Yet do we realize
That to unite with him means that we must
Follow him all the way to the Cross on which

He gave his life’s blood that we might call such
A day good? Most of us are quite unable to answer
Affirmatively in a truly knowing manner.

Wednesday arrives amid the busyness of the week.
Work and life do not rest, yet you and I take this
Moment to anticipate the great Triduum.