She moves in tumult; round her lies
The silence of the world of grace;
The twilight of our mysteries
Shines like high noonday on her face;
Our piteous guesses, dim with fears,
She touches, handles, sees, and hears.

In her all longings mix and meet;
Dumb souls through her are eloquent;
She feels the world beneath her feet
Thrill in a passionate intent;
Through her our tides and feelings roll
And find their God within her soul.

Her faith and the awful Face of God
Brightens and blinds with utter light;
Her footsteps fall where late He trod;
She sinks in roaring voids of night;
Cries to her Lord in black despair,
And knows, yet knows not, He is there.

A willing sacrifice she takes
The burden of our fall within;
Holy she stands; while on her breaks
The lightning of the wrath of sin;
She drinks her Savior’s cup of pain,
And, one with Jesus, thirsts again.

Robert Hugh Benson

The world depicted in ‘Lord of the World’ (Benson’s novel) is one where creeping secularism and Godless humanism have triumphed over religion and traditional morality. It is a world where philosophical relativism has triumphed over objectivity; a world where, in the name of tolerance, religious doctrine is not tolerated. It is a world where euthanasia is practiced widely and religion hardly practiced at all. The lord of this nightmare world is a benign-looking politician intent on power in the name of “peace,” and intent on the destruction of religion in the name of “truth.” In such a world, only a small and shrinking Church stands resolutely against the demonic “Lord of the World.”  Quote from http://www.catholicauthors.com/benson.html

Dreaming

What was it that came fervently into my sleep,
Inviting, breathing softly, causing unrest within slumber
Willing and vulnerable, constant and intense,
Something human, something forgiving,
Something forgiven, something warm,
Embracing, talking, quiet and still,
Another dreaming, vicariously a soul attempting to live.

“Fly from bad companions as from the bite of a poisonous snake. If you keep good companions, I can assure you that you will one day rejoice with the blessed in Heaven; whereas if you keep with those who are bad, you will become bad yourself, and you will be in danger of losing your soul.” — St. John Bosco

What in reality drove through the night,
Adorned in the emptiness of domination,
Disrespect and casualness amidst a life of incompleteness,
Slyly seeking to assert its dominion?
A satanic attack, a demonic attempt,
A demented effort to control and influence,
A foul breathe to extinguish,
A sour voice to cajole,
False pity aimed towards destruction.
Unaware of one’s self, unable to fulfill,
The need to scratch with claws comes natural.
The inability to love stifles within brokenness,
The selfishness of being unable to embrace forces shallow companions,
The wrath and the hate hides behind timid behavior,
Inevitably exploding when sensing something deeper.
All the time living a deceived life of religion,
Devoid of the slightest hint of prayer.
Unable to sleep, prowling about,
As one who has just turned from tigress.

“Death has done that!” said the Marquis,

“And has left me,” answered the nephew, “bound to a system that is frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to execute the last request of my dear mother’s lips, and obey the last look of my dear mother’s eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.” –Charles Dickens “A Tale of Two Cities”

A Rainy Winter Reflection

A siren’s call, nothing there at all,
Whispering screams of intrusion,
A transition, cadaverous faces,
Tattooed arms and broken spaces,
The resounding emptiness of never knowing,
Satisfaction, frustration, nor incrimination,
Blood oozing scar upon scar,
In the light of what transpired darkness emerges,
A soothing of the soul into resting repose,
Distance and demand, a slap in the face,
A farewell to arms, defense and offense,
Quenching the fire of passion,
States of dissipation declaring no recriminations,
GOD alone, fallen amongst many,
Allowing acceptance within severe agitation,
No need to be right, no need for others to be right,
Abundance digested and processed, let it be,
In my hour of darkness, she is standing there in front of me,
Penetrating beyond reason and identity,
A closer proximity and presence, immaculate in splendor,
Mary always and forever at her best when the worst calls.

Divine Mission

Morning prayer before a prison window, headlights turn in, a Rosary renews,
Amidst devastation a call is heard,
Heroin children, tattoos endless, blistering the entire body, coloring immense,
Horror stories boundless, images atrocious, proud beneath scorching music devilishly loud,
Fedoras and good families, immature identities draped in desperation,
Unretractable arguing against the jury with insidious pierced tongues,
Hellish earsplitting constant rapping, spiritual warfare absurdly modern,
Generation upon generation a new generation brazenly willing to go too far,
Grotesque, wickedly unafraid, intelligent, street tough hardened and bold,
Twenty-one pilots ‘all my friends are heathens take it slow’,
Nothing but love emerges, fascination and devotion,
Beads passing through fingers, humble prayer echoing within a broken heart,
Heroin children conquering my will, pain and tears declare,
Internal and loud a voice cries out, Mary imploring,
“Measure your love for these heroin children,
Then imagine my love for all heroin children,
Know my Sorrowful Heart,
I may be the Queen of Heaven,
Destined to smash the head of the serpent,
Yet Satan wounds horribly,
Always willing to hurt and strike,
Forcing tears and sorrow as the cursed one ravages my Son’s children,
Know and be with the heroin children and love them,
For I know your heart and you do, and they admire you,
Now you have been granted a mission, you have witnessed, seen the toll,
You must take the heroin children being devoured by the evil one into your heart,
You have fallen in order to be granted a mission,
The heroin children are losing horribly, determined to be dangerously worldly,
Your days must be filled with rosaries and prayers for the heroin children,
You can do nothing else for they have subjugated your heart,
Graced in prayer, you must join the battle focused upon the heroin children,
Your prayers, and proper behavior, will produce grace for the heroin children.”

Mary, Virgin, and Mother

Oh, Virgin Joy of all the world art thou,
In whose white, fragrant steps the countless throng
On souls elect doth follow God with song;
Creation’s Queen, whose bright and holy brow
The multitude of Saints, like stars, endow
With changeful splendors, flashing far and strong:
The Maid unshadowed by the primal wrong:
God’s Lily, chosen in His shrine to bow.

All these thy glories are, and still a grace
More high, more dread, and yet more sweet and fair,
Doth bind thy royal brows, O Mary blest.
God called thee Mother; yea, His sacred face
The tender likeness of thine own doth wear.
And thou art ours—we trust Him for the rest.

Saint Mary E. Seton

The lessening of all things eases away from brutality,
Brutality being the life of normality once endured,
Nothing appealing to the appetites, a sense and void,
Clashing abrasiveness replaced with silent acceptance,
Annoyed with internal noise opposed to observation,
Within the settling rumblings emerge, distant yet emanating,
Where once there was profound refuge emptiness appears,
Sufficient to breathe within the Body, adoring in prayer,