I am, says God, Master of the Three Virtues.
Faith is a faithful wife.
Charity is an ardent mother.
But hope is a tiny girl.
I am, says God, the Master of Virtues.
Faith is she who remains steadfast during centuries and centuries.
Charity is she who gives herself during centuries and centuries.
But my little hope is she
Who rises every morning.

I am, says God, the Lord of Virtues.
Faith is she who remains tense during centuries and centuries.
Charity is she who unbends during centuries and centuries.
But my little hope
is she who every morning
wishes us good day.

I am, says God, the Lord of Virtues.
Faith is the sanctuary lamp
That burns forever.
Charity is that big, beautiful log fire
That you light in your hearth
So that my children the poor may come
and warm themselves before it on winter evenings.

…………

But my hope is the bloom, and the fruit, and the leaf, and the limb,
And the twig, and the shoot, and the seed, and the bud.
Hope is the shoot, and the bud of the bloom
Of eternity itself.

………….

The faith that I love best, says God, is hope.
Faith doesnt surprise me.
Its not surprising
I am so resplendent in my creation. . . .
That in order really not to see me these poor people would have to be blind.
Charity says God, that doesnt surprise me.
Its not surprising.
These poor creatures are so miserable that unless they had a heart of stone, how could they not have love for one another.
How could they not love their brothers.
How could they not take the bread from their own mouth, their daily bread, in order to give it to the unhappy children who pass by.
And my son had such love for them. . . .
But hope, says God, that is something that surprises me.
Even me.
That is surprising.
That these poor children see how things are going and believe that tomorrow things will go better.
That they see how things are going today and believe that they will go better tomorrow morning.
That is surprising and its by far the greatest marvel of our grace.
And Im surprised by it myself.
And my grace must indeed be an incredible force.

French poet Charles Péguy 1912, a portion of his long poem

Suffering, honor, tenderness: Péguy seems to have come to an understanding through this experience that pain and even a vulnerability to sinfulness often are the only ways to open up channels by which real grace can reach us, particularly those of us who think our faith and morals are already enough. —Royal, Robert. The Mystery of the Passion of Charles Péguy

Thunderstorms, hurricanes, lightning, and typhoons,
A corrupt political world, nasty opinions, agreeing/disagreeing, usurpation within appropriation,
Rabid dogs, ferocious felines, poisonous snakes, and tarantualas,
Demons, devils, evil spirits, witches brew, and criminal intent,
Floods, earthquakes, tidal waves, mudslides, and aggressive automobiles,
Poor health, fever, cancer, high blood pressure, and fatal heart attacks,
Everything crashing in, upon and instead,
It is myself I fear.

Equivalent, an old homeless man, no longer wandering the streets,
Alone, ties that bind severed, hides cured and fashioned,
Archangels, a guardian angel, cloud patterns ascending and descending,
Relationships and worship softening through the decades, a life,
Tendencies, mis-formations, untruths, useless worries, cares and concerns,
Acceptance, repentance, the calm after the storm, prayer and a hunger.

Blowing in the wind,
Rustling leaves in abundance,
Scattered remains falling to the wayside.

The Holy Spirit, transformation through Virgo Potens within Christ,
The fullness of life.

Eve

Exordium de profundis dolorous rifacimento
In the beginning, out of the depths of sorrow, wailing and weeping, gnashing of teeth, came a calling mother to all,
Original sin,
The broken-hearted birth of the blood stained renewal of life giving grace to the following horde of generational de-sanctification.
Another blushing, bleeding out onto the earth, ashes to ashes, dirt to dirt, eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, distinguishing a creative likened celestial confinement,
Cursing and copying beneath the breath starting time, days denying, unwinding, dwindling, marking the hierarchy of accumulated crimes,
Preceding the savage stained children she silently loves, bleeding on into compassion abhorred, she never conceived will-powers crushing, smashing proper supremacy, usurpation,
While bridging waters and piercing a thirsting aftermath of shame, still beneath the heart of a mother beat beyond all relief, loving the birth, while hating the growth,
Human predating the idea of fate, her tears the first tears of a woman to fall, her fears the first fears of a continuing race, her love the state of devastating grace.
Intent upon vibrating within the blame game, she rose to standing, demanding the fault of one who ultimately hoisted the fallen shame.
The adversary, stung by a poisonous tongue the lies of a viper remain, head to be crushed under the heel of a handmaid,
Flooding, careening, descending mountain streams with tears, for her children she wept, crushing intensely imminent little ones pummeled through terror.
Accepting a heart overflowing accursed accountable droplets appear, falling to nothing a fate so deserved, yet evil immensely asserting damning worse for the horror.
Hopelessly a mother lingers and fingers the enrapturing hands of time, sitting awaiting the predestined mystery divine, innocently deducing the critical crime.
Patiently entrapped amongst a revelation vicious and violent in nature, the quest, the witnessing of the sublime, she waits not for those unadorned in blessed adoration.
She never made claims unfounded by the need for validation, left clothed and cast out, exiting the garden without innocence, knowing too much, goes to show how wrong you can be.