The House of God
How could have all of this from them grown up,
These soul-locked glad-glade battlements of heart,
These swan-sung flights bearing the holy cup
At heart, high font. For his and for her part
Are broken grounds forever building way,
Are knights, blood-drenched in Sansfoi, robed in light,
Are kingly shepherds mired in shear-shorn clay
Unfurled, congloried over all our blight.
The cupola is, oh still, the cornerstone,
The crown and scepter the first lowly step,
The genuflected Fiat flesh and bone
Decked in those flowers—Saints—who show her depth.
The blueprint and the palace here are one:
Grace grace-garland crownèd with, by, her Son.
The Fire of St. Lawrence
Incensed, Valerian scorned the heavenly deed,
Demanded the dead grave idols Mammon made,
And like them, dead mouthed, blind eyed, bade
The blood from out that shepherd’s veins be freed.
In fires the Romans could not see or feed,
If passus est or assus est, he burned
The palm frond crown capped Lenten coal, Easter,
Sparked risen from his gridled blood-born Creed.
For he had flamed, long fore Valerian fired,
His heart, a grill purged of all earthly dross,
A Deacon keeping sheep from hell’s sad throe:
His Church the Holy Spirit’s blaze attired,
The Christ-come strangers saved from burning loss,
The three-day gathered seared in worldly woe.
The Sevened Heart
What mother mourned her child’s death at birth?
What bride bedecked her wedding gown with black,
Or gave her heart to sword, a barren mirth?
No wonder would such lonely Lady lack.
Her sorrows sevened from the Prophet’s call
Over the Christ her Son: Egypt-flown,
Lost, hidden in His Father’s house, His fall
Before His cross-death, body brought down
And buried in the earth and in the heart
Of she whose womb bore Him for whom the world
Had groaned. Oh, could a greater light impart
Or greater grace white-fringe her grieving robe?
These treasures are her Sevened Heart, Envoy
Eternal, Sacred Rite and Solemn Joy.