Tuesday, March 28, 2017
Sunday, March 26, 2017
Another poem from a good friend from Father Michel Quoist.
The last ones squeeze in,
The door rolls shut.
The subway rumbles off,
I can't move.
I am no longer an individual but a crowd,
A crowd that moves in one piece like jellied soup in its can.
A nameless and indifferent crowd, probably far from you, Lord.
I am one with the crowd, and I see why it's sometimes hard for me to rise higher.
The crowd is heavy-leaden soles on my feet, my slow feet-a crowd too large for my overburdened skiff.
Yet, Lord, I have no right to overlook these people; they are my brothers,
And I cannot save myself, alone.
Lord, since you wish it, I shall head for heaven "in the subway."
Friday, March 24, 2017
A good friend sent me this poem from Father Michel Quoist. It moved me as I think about the City and faith.
The wires are holding hands around the holes;
To avoid breaking the ring, they hold tight the neighboring wrist,
And it's thus that with holes they make a fence.
Lord, there are lots of holes in my life.
There are some in the lives of my neighbors.
But if you wish, we shall hold hands,
We shall hold very tight,
And together we shall make a fine roll of fence to adorn Paradise.