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Reflections
Every
so often we come across a thought provoking article,
a meditation, or just something written by someone
that shows a deep insight. With their permission,
we'll publish them here at irregular intervals.
The
Hermit's Song
I
long, O Son of the living God,
Ancient,
eternal King,
For
a hidden hut on the wilds untrod,
Where
Thy praises I might sing;
A
little, lithe lark of plumage grey
To
be singing still beside it,
Pure
waters to wash my sin away,
When
Thy Spirit has sanctified it.
Hard
by it a beautiful, whispering wood
Should
stretch, upon either hand,
To
nurse the many-voiced fluttering brood
In
its shelter green and bland.
Southward,
for warmth, should my hermitage face,
With
a runnel across its floor,
In
a choice land gifted with every grace,
And
good for all manner of store.
A
few true comrades I next would seek
To
mingle with me in prayer,
Men
of wisdom, submissive, meek;
Their
number I now declare,
Four
times three and three times four,
For
every want expedient,
Sixes
two within God's Church door,
To
north and south obedient;
Twelve
to mingle their voices with mine
At
prayer, whate'er the weather,
To
Him Who bids His dear sun shine
On
the good and ill together.
Pleasant
the Church with fair Mass cloth,
No
dwelling for Christ's declining
To
its crystal candles, of bees-wax both,
On
the pure, white Scriptures shining.
Beside
it a hostel for all to frequent,
Warm
with a welcome for each,
Where
mouths, free of boasting and ribaldry, vent
But
modest and innocent speech.
These
aids to support us my husbandry seeks,
I
name them now without hiding--
Salmon
and trout and hens and leeks,
And
the honey-bees' sweet providing.
Raiment
and food enow will be mine
From
the King of all gifts and all graces;
And
I to be kneeling, in rain or shine,
Praying
to God in all places.
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From ninth century Irish
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