mourning her sick child
the hundredth time that day
or any day or night
equally wearying, equally hopeless.
She sees death stand at the end of days.
And saw a young husband;
his wife, suddenly dead, borne to the church door,
he, serving at Mass
impassive, cold at wrist and heart
to match her cold, one ice laid on one flesh.
The exemplary world moves us to tears
that in their falling, purify
eye's glance, impure world, both
I know the world now , if world has face.
It beats steadily as a child's heart.
It is the moon's rhythm
that like a woman's long
unutterable glance of love
draws the bridegroom after. (Fr. Daniel J. Berrigan)
