« Prev The Dew Divine. Next »


First Poem of Sister Teresa.

My sweetest Jesus! on Thy Mother’s breast

Thy little Face is radiant with love;

Deign to reveal to me the mystery blest

That drew Thee down to exile from above.

Let me hide with Thee ‘neath her veil of snow,

That now conceals Thee from all human sight.

Alone with Thee, bright Morning Star, I’ll know

On earth a foretaste of heaven’s deep delight.

When dawn awakens in the far-off cast,

And first the sunbeams strike athwart the skies,

Looks for a precious balm — its daily feast —

The unfolding floweret with expectant eyes.

Those spotless pearls of clear translucent dew

Are full of some mysterious vital power;

They form the sap that ever doth renew

And ope the petals of the half-blown flower.

Thou art the Flower with petals still unclosed;

I gaze upon Thy beauty undefiled.

Thou art the Rose of Sharon long foretold,

Still in Thy glorious bud, Thou heavenly Child!

Thy dearest Mother’s arms, so pure and white,

Form for Thee now a royal cradle-throne;

Thy morning sun is Mary’s bosom bright,

Thy sunlit dew her virginal milk, my Own!

Ah, little Brother, shielded safe from harms,

In Thy deep eyes Thy future clear I see, ­—

Soon Thou wilt leave for us Thy Mother’s arms;

E’en now to suffer, Love is urging Thee.

And round Thy very Cross, Thou fading Flower,

Still clings the fragrance of Thy cradle-throne;

I recognize the pearls of Thy first hour:

This Blood drew life from Mary’s milk, my Own.

Those pearly dews on all our altars rest;

The angels fain would slake their thirst thereby,

Offering to God these words, forever blest:

“Behold the Lamb “ — St. John’s adoring cry.

Yes, see the Word, made Bread for famished men,

The Eternal Priest, the Lamb on altar-throne!

Since God’s own Son is Mary’s Son, all, then,

This Bread drew life from Mary’s milk, my Own!

On love divine, on joy, on glory’s light,

The seraphs feast with rapture ever new;

I, a frail child, in the ciborium bright

See but a milk-white Host, like pearly dew.

And since ‘tis milk that suits with childhood most,

And Thou art Love Itself upon Thy throne,

So, tender Love, in my white daily Host

I see Thy Mother’s virginal milk, my Own!

February 2, 1893

« Prev The Dew Divine. Next »
VIEWNAME is workSection