“He covers you with his pinions”
It is said that once
the Spanish mystic St. John of the
was so much enthused
in front of a beautiful statue of the
that he started dancing whilst singing:
if your love can kill,
kill me now!!”
God is stunning.
Gorgeous, perhaps, is a better word.
When He visits me,
He always knows what to do.
Sometimes He consoles me.
He enters into the chasm of my depression
and there He speaks to my heart.
He has a way also how to rebuke me.
There were times when He just smiled
when He found me doing something stupid.
There were times when He just stood
without saying anything
because, I suppose, He saw my aching
One thing I know for sure.
He is the only one who never accused
never slighted me
never told me ‘what an embarrassment,
you should be ashamed of yourself’.
He never pointed his finger at me and
Even when he had every good reason
Even when, like the woman taken in
I was caught red-handed and was brought
He continued loving me when I was selfish
a filthy sinner.
He is the only one who taught me to
in the stars
even when everything around me was
There was a woman who for twelve years
had suffered from a flow of blood.
She was losing blood and life with
She broke the law of Leviticus 15
when she drew near and touched the
And He did not condemn her
but healed her… whilst she was breaking
This is my God!
And if today I am still a Christian
it is because He met me.
He never expected anything from me
– as people
He never tried to trample me underfoot
as people do.
He never doubted me – as people do.
But he always told me: “Courage, Pius!
Don’t lose hope!
Don’t be afraid!
I love you - what else do you need?
I respect you – what else do you desire?
I understand you – why do you set off
others to understand you?
I love you as a bridegroom loves his
as a shepherd loves his lost sheep.
Let me smother you with my love’s kisses.
Let me make you drunk with the most
Let me fill you to overflowing with
This is what God always tells me.
“I sleep, but my heart is awake.
I hear my love knocking:
‘Open to me, my sister, my beloved,
my dove, my perfect one!
For my head is wet with dew,
my hair with the drops of night.’
My love thrust his hand
through the hole in the door;
I trembled to the core of my being.
Then I got up to open to my love,
myrrh ran off my hands,
pure myrrh off my fingers,
on to the handle of the bolt.
I opened to my love,
but he had turned and gone!
My soul failed at his flight.
I charge you daughters of Jerusalem,
what are you to tell him? –That I am sick
(Song of Songs 5, 2. 4-6. 8)
(c) Fr. Pius Sammut, OCD. Permission
hereby granted for any non-commercial
provided that the content is unaltered
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