The Martyr

*** Revised Common Lectionary *** Lectionary Reading: Hebrews 11:29-12:2 CLASSIC POEM: The Martyr Christina Rossetti See, the sun hath risen! Lead her from the prison; She is young and tender, lead her tenderly: May no fear subdue her, Lest the Saints be fewer, Lest her place in Heaven be lost eternally. Forth she came, not trembling, No, nor yet dissembling An o’erwhelming terror weighing her down—down; Little, little heeding Earth, but inly pleading For the strength to triumph and to win a crown. All her might was rallied To her heart; not pallid Was her cheek, but glowing with a glorious red, Glorious red and saintly, Never paling faintly, But still flushing, kindling still, without thought of dread. On she went, on faster, Trusting in her Master, Feeling that His Eye watched o’er her lovingly; He would prove and try her, But would not deny her, When her soul had pass’d, for His sake, patiently. “Christ,” she said, “receive me, Let no terrors grieve me, Take my soul and guard it with Thy heavenly cares: Take my soul and guard it, Take it and reward it With the Love Thou bearest for the love it bears.” Quickened with a fire Of sublime desire, She looked up to Heaven, and she cried aloud, “Death, I do entreat thee, Come! I go to meet thee; Wrap me in the whiteness of a virgin shroud.” On she went, hope-laden; Happy, happy maiden! Never more to tremble, and to weep no more: All her sins forgiven, Straight the path to Heaven Through the glowing fire lay her feet before. On she went, on quickly, And her breath came thickly, With the longing to see God coming pantingly: Now the fire is kindled, And her flesh has dwindled Unto dust;—her soul is mounting up on high: Higher, higher mounting, The swift moments counting, Fear is left beneath her, and the chastening rod: Tears no more shall blind her, Trouble lies behind her, Satisfied with hopeful rest, and replete with God. *** This poem is in the public domain, and may be read in a live-streamed worship service. CONTEMPORARY POEM: An Invocation to St. Lucy Thomas Merton SNIPPET: We have long since cut down the summer of our history; Our cheerful towns have all gone out like fireflies in October. The fields are flooded and the vines are bare: … [ READ THE FULL POEM ]