THE TERESIAN CONTEMPLATIVE

She moves in tumult; round her lies The silence of the world of grace; The twilight of our mysteries Shines like high noonday on her face; Our piteous guesses, dim with fears, She touches, handles, sees, and hears. In her all longings mix and meet; Dumb souls through her are eloquent; She feels the world beneath her feet Thrill in a passionate intent; Through her our tides of feeling roll And find their God within her soul. Her faith and awful Face of God Brightens and blinds with utter light; Her footsteps fall where late He trod; She sinks in roaring voids of night; Cries to her Lord in black despair, And knows, yet knows not, He is there. A willing sacrifice she takes The burden of our fall within; Holy she stands; while on her breaks The lightning of the wrath of sin; She drinks her Saviour’s cup of pain, And, one with Jesus, thirsts again.