Pity us, and make us well,
For we have come to be merely clothes
Through which the desert is about to whistle.
Great we once deemed ourselves, when mercilessly
We tore You from ourselves and left You on the cross,
Unsuspecting of what was to befall us.
Why do we hope that You would return
To us, the blind and deaf, crippled in soul?
Only the lost feel when You draw near...
We live in Your absence like shadows,
And the waiting consumes the absence
And, behold, how out of all we remain One!
Monica Pillat
1 Comment
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Anastasia
❤️❤️❤️