Martyrdom

You're quite right if you think my blog lacks organization and order. At the moment I am visiting Maria Skobtsova (1891-1945), and a poem she jotted down in 1938 can't just be read and passed by.
I want to have it at hand for the next few days, where I can come back to it when I need it. The title of this post is not the title of the poem, which has no title. I just wanted to call it something, something simple. Maria and I are, I think, good friends. I'm learning the same lessons she learned, and from the same Master. To have her words near me is somehow reassuring. I thank God that such people as Maria exist.

The clerk will note the words,
with care the judges will apply the law.
They'll lead me off. Bells peal.
A trumpeter stands poised. I hear crowds roar.

Before me, a fiery and glorious path.
The monks take care to keep the sacred flames alight.
The flickering embers of my life subside.
The end. Why were the ropes so tight?

Come, intersection of two beams,
come in the final throes.
For centuries, unseen, from wounds
that have not healed, blood flows.