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| (Found here) |
beauty of a kind that draws me
down to the root of my desire.
And you, Source of beauty,
responding to my need, have
planted signs for me to follow,
traces for me to track, a tide
of marvels at almost every step.
Yet even now distractions
hold me fast. I cannot reach
the depth to which I’m called.
O come, Spirit of God,
come to my aid, and breathe
upon my being with fresh
breath. Come, quicken
to new life the ancient sloth
of sense and spirit. Come
out of the glad music of a
mountain stream, or out
of a sudden storm, or a spring
breeze thick with orange and
apple blossom. O so inflame
these traces with your mark
it almost seems that, when
on slope and hill the wind shakes
out the scent of gorse, I can
breathe in your breath.
O beauty’s
hidden Source, take pity on
my blind dust, on my shadowed
heart’s dumb ache.
~Paul Murray
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