We meet our griefs again when work is through
and do with words what little words can do.
A stranger weeps beside us through the night.
Beneath our pleasant sun, we never knew
the dark that hates the sky for being bright.
We thought to build a garden without rue,
to climb and, all-beloved, to reach the height.
Our sins were trifling, the false called true,
a petty disbelief in wrong and right.
For every sin we pay, but no sin drew
these hates. It is our virtue they requite.
Along the shore, the squabbling seabirds mew
at passing ships and wheel away in fright.
We meet our griefs again when work is through.
We do with words what little words can do.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Vatican II Didn’t Kneel to Modernity
In his weekly catecheses on Vatican II, Pope Leo is now discussing Gaudium et Spes, one of…
No Right to Erase Baptism
Is baptism an irreversible spiritual and ontological change or a piece of recorded personal data to be…
The Church in the Age of Therapy
In 1966, Philip Rieff wrote in The Triumph of the Therapeutic that “Religious man was born to…
