Smallness of Self

At last, it’s all pleasing to me
to seek out this smallness of self.
It is desirable, in fact,
that I should be of no account.
How blissful it is to rest there
and take no glory for myself.
But in the shades of that old tree
the wind is better to catch me.
Who must find me in this quiet,
but the unheard voice from beyond?

            The silent voice commands all things!
And they rise up of their own wills.
What are the wills of creation,
but the very Voice who makes them?
So, at last, I come to hate might,
I despise zeal, and loath insight.
I seek the passion from on high:
what fires of love, burn sin away!
Within such ardor I am caught…
yet better caught, than blind and damned.

            The sun shines down and makes things glad.
How good it is that these things come,
that those close to me should wound me
and afford me this kenosis:
that in their sin I may love them,
and in my failing to love well,
all may see better: Christ is love.
He rises up, and warms my bones.
I settle underneath His rays
at last, it’s all pleasing to me.