John Of Forde, His Witness

John of Forde

Kneeling there, the candles living flame
in the darkened abbey, brother monks
still and silent at the golden altar rail,
kneeling there, clearing that inner space
into which may enter what God wills –

sometimes He takes me unawares;
murmurs like a gentle thunder
some clear message beyond words
yet winging into crystal sentences,
and that, a treasure-house of joy…

why do I call it sweet, this moment
savoured, indescribable? Because
there is no other word… why do I say,
ah, He has called me to the marriage feast..?

How else to tell you how, at that,
everything becomes delight,
everything becomes a glory?

and the glory is delight;
delight, in truth, the glory.