I had forgotten about this poem until I happened upon it this morning. Perhaps it will stir some useful thoughts as we journey through Holy Week.
I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.
I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.
All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.
About the poet: Joseph Mary Plunkett
Born in Dublin in 1887, Joseph Plunkett wrote many poems of rare mystical force. Plunkett was one of the signers of the Proclamation of the Irish Republic and was imprisoned by the English army. He was executed in 1916 for his part in the 1916 Rising. Shortly before his execution on the morning of May 4, he married his fiancée, Grace Gifford, in the jail’s chapel. Plunkett was 28 years old.
Because of his great love for the Incarnate Word and the Word’s close connection to all created things, Plunkett seemed to see Christ’s destiny and great love as forever entwined with this earth and this universe.