I’m not sure where I found this Sunday-poem or who the poet is. There are some very beautiful thoughts expressed here which I pray touches your heart and its desires.
Woman of fire,
woman of desire,
woman of great passions,
Woman of the lavish gesture.
Mary of Magdala!
The icons show you robed in red,
covered in the blood of the Lamb,
a living flame, a soul set afire.
You are there at the foot of the cross:
kneeling, bending low, crushed by sorrow,
your face in the dust.
You love,
but in that hour of darkness,
dare not look on the disfigured Face of Love.
It is enough that you are there,
brought low with Him,
Enough for you
the Blood dripping from the wounded feet
Blood seeping into the earth
to mingle with your tears.
You seek Him on your bed at night,
Him whom your heart loves.
David’s song is on your lips:
“Of Thee my heart has spoken. Seek his face.
It is Thy Face, O Lord, that I seek;
hide not Thy face from me” (Ps 26:8-9).
His silence speaks.
His absence is a presence.
And so you rise to go about the city,
drawn out, drawn on by Love’s lingering fragrance.
“Draw me, we will run after Thee, in the odor of your ointments” (Song of Songs 1.3).
You seek Him by night
in the streets and broadways;
you seek Him whom your soul loves,
with nought by your heart’s desire for compass.
You seek Him but do not find Him.
In this, Mary, you are friend to every seeker.
In this, you are a sister to every lover.
In this you are close to us who walk in darkness
and wait in the shadows,
and ask of every watchman,
“Have you seen Him whom my soul loves?”
Guide us, Mary, to the garden of new beginnings.
Let us follow you in the night.
Wake our souls before the rising of the sun.
Weep that we may weep
and in weeping become penetrable to joy.
The Gardener waits,
the earth beneath His feet watered by your tears.
Turn, Mary, that with you we may turn
and, being converted,
behold His Face
and hear His voice
and, like you, be sent to say only this:
“I have seen the Lord” (John 20:18).
