'....it is of the very essence of Christianity to face suffering and death not because they are good, not because they have meaning, but because the resurrection of Jesus has robbed them of their meaning."
Thomas Merton
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The moon fades,
clouds enshroud stars
pale trees glare
ensnared by winter winds
blanching at death's edge,
and yet you whisper
gently in the rain,
promise me gifts
of disease and pain
to strip me clean
and pure again.
O, make me
your sacrament!
pure essence,
of eternal gain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A truly great little poem. Fantastic write. You may like my poem called the living and the dead.