sonnet imperfect

How do I love Thee?

And what stands in pure love’s way?

The only way I know is to love these ones You have given me. But they are imperfect and I find my love faltering. Strange that to draw near to the Perfect means to embrace imperfection.

Why do You clothe Yourself in these rags? Is there no other way to the city of God than the road of suffering? If I hope to find You in the city, I must look for You on the road, the man beaten and bloodied by guttersnipe robbers, the man ignored by those of religious persuasion, the man dying.

I am but a Samaritan, and nothing like good, but in this stoop to gather Your wounds in my arms, I hope that some of Your blood may rub off on me.

Love is a laying down.

I could count the ways this all inconveniences me, but better to throw my hands up to Infinity.

“Lay down with me,” the Perfect says, “and I will show you what Love is.”

Love calls in the crying child, the mess of play on the floor, the ever-bending of my will to the Will of God. He wills Love, only ever Love, and He wills it in a thousand ways, wills that these stumbling stones become a bridge that takes me to the rock solid.

A pure and perfect love – the telos of life hidden in the chaos of living. The face of God in the face of a child.

Only here, with my childhood’s faith, I love Thee purely.


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