Читать книгу St. Francis Poems - David Craig - Страница 9

How the crucifix spoke to him for the first time and how he henceforth carried the passion of Christ in his heart until death.

The corpus strained—against

him, the rut in the land, the stag’s opened throat,

every merchant coin; all years before

his own skin would yaw, open its bitter hosanna.

Outside the Portiuncula, he cried out

because no one ever did, because the world would not.

He would make it his rooftop then,

shout in a loud voice, attempt to wake the forest,

all the unfruitful dead beyond.

He’d sprinkled chaste “Brother Ash” on his food

because we never think to do the same.

And because Mary had to rummage,

he rushed to the ground, ate with the pigs.

If the brothers couldn’t see how crucial humility was,

how would anyone else?

He’d stop so often, lost in loud sighs:

his aloneness, their burden; he’d provoke,

disrupt them out of any earned rest, meal.

He’d tell them that when they heard the next sigh,

they should praise God for His great condescension;

that they should pray for Francis continually,

whose need was at least as great as their own.