Author: Sr. Dorcee, beloved

This Sunday’s poem is by T.S. Eliot:

We praise Thee, O God, for Thy glory displayed in all the creatures of the earth,
In the snow, in the rain, in the wind, in the storm; in all of Thy creatures, both the hunters and the hunted.
For all things exist only as seen by Thee, only as known by Thee, all things exist
Only in Thy light, and Thy glory is declared even in that which denies Thee; the darkness declares the glory of light.
Those who deny Thee could not deny, if Thou didst not exist; and their denial is never complete, for if it were so, they would not exist.
They affirm Thee in living; all things affirm Thee in living; the bird in the air, both the hawk and the finch: the beast on the earth, both the wolf and the lamb; the worm in the soil and the worm in the belly.
Therefore, man, whom THou hast made to be conscious of Thee, must consciously praise Thee, in thought and in word, and in deed.
Even with the hand to the broom, the back bent in laying the fire, the knee bent in cleaning the hearth, we, the scrubbers and sweepers of Canterbury,
The back bent under toil, the knee bent under sin, the hands to the face under fear, the head bent under grief,
Even in us the voices of seasons, the snuffle of winter, the song of spring, the drone of summer, the voices of beasts and of birds, praise Thee.
We thank Thee for the mercies of blood, for Thy redemption by blood.  For the blood of Thy martyrs and saings
Shall enrich the earth, shall create holy places.
For wherever a saint has dwelt, wherever a martyr has given his blood for the blood of Christ,
There is holy ground, and the sanctity shall not depart from it
Though armies trample over it, though sightseers come with guidebooks looking over it;
From where the western seas gnaw at the coast of Iona,
To the death in the desert, the prayer in forgotten places, by the broken imperial column,
From such ground springs that which forever renews the earth
Though it is forever denied.  Therefore, O God, we thank Thee
Who has given such blessing in Canterbury.

                                                      – T.S. Eliot