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Rosa Mystica 'The rose is a mystery'--where is it found? Is it anything true? Does it grow upon the ground? It was made of earth's mould, but it went from men's eyes, And its place is a secret and shut in the skies. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, Find me a place by thee, mother of mine. But where was it formerly? Which is the spot That was blest in it once, though now it is not? It is Galilee's growth: it grew at God's will And broke into bloom upon Nazareth hill. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, I shall look on thy loveliness, mother of mine. What was its season then? How long ago? When was the summer that saw the bud blow? Two thousands of years are near upon past Since its birth and its bloom and its breathing its last. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, I shall keep time with thee, mother of mine. Tell me the name now, tell me its name. The heart guesses easily: is it the same? Mary the Virgin, well the heart knows, She is the mystery, she is that rose. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, I shall come home to thee, mother of mine. Is Mary the rose then? Mary, the tree? But the blossom, the blossom there--who can it be? Who can her rose be? It could but be One Christ Jesus our Lord, her God and her son. In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine, Show me thy son, mother, mother of mine. What was the colour of that blossom bright?-- White to begin with, immaculate white. But what a wild flush on the flakes of it stood When the rose ran in crimsonings down the cross-wood! In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine I shall worship His wounds with thee, mother of mine. How many leaves had it?--Five they were then, Five, like the senses and members of men; Five is their number by nature, but now They multiply, multiply--who can tell how? In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine Make me a leaf in thee, mother of mine. Does it smell sweet, too, in that holy place? Sweet unto God and the sweetness is grace: The breath of it bathes great heaven above In grace that is charity, grace that is love. To thy breast, to thy rest, to thy glory divine Draw me by charity, mother of mine. ↗
While it was well within their powers to toy around with mortals like hapless puppets, deeper human workings remained elusive to them. The heart, the soul, the very foundation of man’s nature—those were mysteries to the gods, for all their manipulations. ↗
To man has been given the grief, often, of seeing his gods overthrown and his altars crumbling; but to the wolf and the wild dog that have come in to crouch at man's feet, this grief has never come. Unlike man, whose gods are of the unseen and overguessed, vapors and mists of fancy eluding the garmenture of reality, wandering wraiths of desired goodness and power, intangible outcroppings of self into the realm of spirit - unlike man, the wolf and the wild dog that have come into their fire find the gods in the living flesh, solid to the touch, occupying earth-space and requiring time for the accomplishment of their ends and their existence. No effort of faith is necessary to believe in such a god; no effort of will can possibly induce disbelief in such a god. There is no getting away from it. There it stands, on its two hindlegs, club in hand, immensely potential, passionate and wrathful and loving, god and mystery and power all wrapped up and around by flesh that bleeds when it is torn and that is good to eat like any flesh. ↗
God who gave Animals self motion beyond our understanding is without doubt able to implant other principles of motion in bodies [which] we may understand as little. Some would readily grant this may be a Spiritual one; yet a mechanical one might be showne, did not I think it better to pass it by. ↗
Woods are grim places. Farmers shoot squirrels, crows, magpies, and hang them up on trees to warn Mother Nature to get it together or else. Much notice she takes, being in league with God. They're a right pair, more carnage than the rest of us put together. ↗
#farmers #god #lovejoy #mother-nature #nature
It was a long head. It was a wedge, a sliver, a grotesque slice in which it seemed the features had been forced to stake their claims, and it appeared that they had done so in a great hurry and with no attempt to form any kind of symmetrical pattern for their mutual advantage. The nose had evidently been first upon the scene and had spread itself down the entire length of the wedge, beginning among the grey stubble of the hair and ending among the grey stubble of the beard, and spreading on both sides with a ruthless disregard for the eyes and mouth which found precarious purchase. The mouth was forced by the lie of the terrain left to it, to slant at an angle which gave to its right-hand side an expression of grim amusement and to its left, which dipped downwards across the chin, a remorseless twist. It was forced by not only the unfriendly monopoly of the nose, but also by the tapering character of the head to be a short mouth; but it obvious by its very nature that, under normal conditions, it would have covered twice the area. The eyes in whose expression might be read the unending grudge they bore against the nose were as small as marbles and peered out between the grey grass of the hair. This head, set at a long incline upon a neck as wry as a turtle's cut across the narrow vertical black strip of the window. Steerpike watched it turn upon the neck slowly. It would not have surprised him if it had dropped off, so toylike was its angle. As he watched, fascinated, the mouth opened and a voice as strange and deep as the echo of a lugubrious ocean stole out into the morning. Never was a face so belied by its voice. The accent was of so weird a lilt that at first Steerpike could not recognize more than one sentence in three, but he had quickly attuned himself to the original cadence and as the words fell into place Steerpike realised he was staring at a poet. ↗
