Wednesday, December 14, 2005

As promised, my latest poem

The Tears Of Monica

Bloodshot eyes, tear stained cheeks
Not unnoticed by heaven’s eye.
Running nose, puffy eyes;
Pure, like finest incense.

Matter mixed with the human soul,
Languishing; body convulsing
With the twisting of the spirit:
Most wholesome prayers.

The tears of Monica
Washed away deafness
From the Maker’s ears,
Caused heaven to be swayed.

Weeping for her first born son
Whose wage was death
Though he breathed the same
Yet was captive to his sin.

“Mountain be moved!”
her tiny faith said.
“Cursed fig tree,
Bear fruit!”

The prayers of a mother
Quaked the earth.
Her inward groaning
Touched infinity:
A saint was formed,
Augustine stood up,
Fortresses fell
And cathedrals arose.

Tim Underwood
November 23, 2005

3 comments:

Barry said...

Thanks for that Tim! Perseverance in prayer for her son... What a blessing to have a mother like that. Was this your experience also? Barry

Tim said...

No, it was strictly a poem about St. Monica's prayers for St. Augustine. Well, I think my grandmother may have prayed for me, she is a believer.

Javier Marti said...

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