 | Irish Poems |  |
81
AFTER COMMUNION
I carry now within my breast
The Son of God; His rest, His nest:
As Mary's arms once cradled close
Her Rose of Heaven, her golden Rose.
The Son of God; His rest, His nest:
As Mary's arms once cradled close
Her Rose of Heaven, her golden Rose.
I am the stable and the bed,
The holy hay where He was laid.
The angels stand at gaze to see
What wonder hath been wrought on me.
The holy hay where He was laid.
The angels stand at gaze to see
What wonder hath been wrought on me.
I am the House of Nazareth,
Where Jesus drew His quiet breath,
When He was little and a boy,
His father's light, His mother's joy.
Where Jesus drew His quiet breath,
When He was little and a boy,
His father's light, His mother's joy.
I am the ass went carrying,
Ere He was born, the Precious Thing;
The ass, whereof God's guard did keep
The four little feet lest they should slip.
Ere He was born, the Precious Thing;
The ass, whereof God's guard did keep
The four little feet lest they should slip.
82
I am the room wherein was set
The Last Supper's most heavenly meat;
And I the platter and the cup
He gave to them when He did sup.
The Last Supper's most heavenly meat;
And I the platter and the cup
He gave to them when He did sup.
I am the Cross, whereon He lay,
The rock-hewn grave cold as the clay;
But not the garden green wherein
He talked with Mary Magdalen.
The rock-hewn grave cold as the clay;
But not the garden green wherein
He talked with Mary Magdalen.
I shine beyond the fairest star,
More than the constellations are,
A little while: till He is gone,
And all my lights die, one by one.
More than the constellations are,
A little while: till He is gone,
And all my lights die, one by one.
I am naught but common clay, so hard.
I bring nor balm nor spikenard;
Nor fling Him Magdalen's beauteous fleece,
Nor shed her tears that win heart's ease.
I bring nor balm nor spikenard;
Nor fling Him Magdalen's beauteous fleece,
Nor shed her tears that win heart's ease.
Yet am His Cup: no porcelain fine,
Nor wrought silver, nor gold ashine:
His choice: and shining by that bliss
Beyond the heavenly chalices.
Nor wrought silver, nor gold ashine:
His choice: and shining by that bliss
Beyond the heavenly chalices.
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