Our General

Villancico VI for the Feast of the Assumption, 1676 (excerpt)

Clear the way for the entrance
of the bold adventuress
who undoes injustice,
who smashes insults.

The sun's rays are her
resplendent armor
the stars her helmet,
the moon her boots.

On her shining shield
with which she dazzles hell,
a mountain is emblazoned
and golden letters: Tota Pulchra.

Celebrated for her beauty,
feared for her ferocity
she is jaunty and valiant,
and angelic is her beauty...

She dispelled the charms
of the ancient serpent
whose conspiracy
sets us under slavery's yoke.

She avenges wrongs
and annuls unjust laws,
gives refuge to orphans
and shelter to widows.

She liberated prisoners
from that prison where,
were it not for her daring spirit,
still they'd await their release.

All hell trembles at the mere
mention of her name.
And they say its very kings
fast on her vigil...

She is the one, whose tread
no demon can endure.
When he sees her feet,
he takes to his heels.

Crowned with glory and honor,
the deeds that brought her fame,
since they cannot be contained on earth,
send her riding out of this world.

As knight errant of the spheres
on a new adventure,
she finds hidden treasure
sought by so many.

--Sor Juana Inésde la Cruz (1648-1695)

Via the Shrine of the Holy Whapping

Rosa Mystica

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

'The Rose is a mystery' - where is it found?
Is it anything true? Does it grow on the ground?
It was made of the earth's mould, but it went from men's eyes,
And its place is a secret, and shut in the skies.
In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine
Find me a place by thee, Mother of mine.

But where was it formerly? Which is the spot
That was blest in it once, though now it is not?
It is Galilee's growth; it grew at God's will
and broke into bloom upon Nazareth Hill.
In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine
I shall look on thy loveliness, Mother of mine.

What was its season, then? How long ago?
When was the summer that saw the Bud blow?
Two thousands of years are near upon past
Since its birth, and its bloom, and its breathing its last.
I shall keep time with thee, Mother of mine.
Tell me the name now, tell me its name:

The heart guesses easily, is it the same?
Mary, the Virgin, well the heart knows,
She is the Mystery, she is that Rose.
In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine
I shall come home to thee, Mother of mine.

Is Mary that Rose then? Mary, the tree?
But the Blossom, the Blossom there, who can it be?
Who can her Rose be? It could be but One:
Christ Jesus, our Lord - her God and her Son.
In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine
Shew me thy son, Mother, Mother of mine.

What was the color of that Blossom bright?
White to begin with, immaculate white.
But what a wild flush on the flakes of it stood,
When the Rose ran in crimsoning down the Cross wood.
In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine
I shall worship the Wounds with thee, Mother of mine.

How many leaves had it? Five they were then,
Five like the senses, and members of men;
Five is the number by nature, but now
They multiply, multiply, who can tell how.
In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine
Make me a leaf in thee, Mother of mine.

Does it smell sweet, too, in that holy place?
Sweet unto God, and the sweetness is grace;
The breath of it bathes the great heaven above,
In grace that is charity, grace that is love.
To thy breast, to thy rest, to thy glory divine
Draw me by charity, Mother of mine.

We Do Well Always and Everywhere to Give You Thanks

I came across to this poem while reading the 4th Edition/2008 of Maria Legionis

(For those doesn't know, Maria Legionis is our legion magazine - Guys, i recommend you to do take a look at this magazine that we received monthly...a LOT of good stuff inside!!)

I would like to read to you a little poem. It is directed to God the Father and is taken from the first sentence of almost every Preface of every Mass that is celebrated. The title of the poem, taken from the first sentence, is.....

"We Do Well Always and Everywhere to Give You Thanks"
(in other words, always and everywhere we should give God thanks)

Teach me Lord to live this prayer,
That I may thank you everyday for everything!
Oh, I do at times give you thanks, for what seems good:
For my health, for my success, for love, and all that benefits me,
ant yet how thoughtless I am, how blind I am,
not to thank You for what is truly good.
For the pain, the unkindness, the criticism, the blame,
For every Legion invitation to become an offices of a Praesidium, or council,
to go house to house, to go on a Columban drive,
In a word, for every hurt, and for every invitation that comes from a person,
place or from my Legion work.
By these keen instruments would You, Divine Physucuan,
Remove from me the harmful growths of self, to give new life
Your own true life - and peace abundantly.

But I am blind and I do now see your loving hand in every invitation
that comes from persion, place or legion work. And so, in saying, "No, I'm too busy, I don't have time"
or "No, let Mary Jones do it, she's better qualified than I".
in resisting, I suffer more and I spoil your work.
Had I accepted all with gratitude, I might long since have been a saint,
and happy - for a grateful heart cannot be otherwise.
Forgive me, then, O my God my blindness and my squandered life,
And give me the grace, this day, to see
Your chastening hand in every legion initation that comes to me,
and in all of my hurts,
And not to blame your instruments.
But give me the grace to take each Legion invitation, each purifying cross,
And then, to give THANKS TO YOU, with all my heart.

More poems from San Juan de la Cruz

Of the communion of the three Persons

Out of the love immense and bright

That from the two had thus begun,

Words of ineffable delight

The Father spoke unto the Son:

Words of so infinite a rapture

Their drift by none could be explained:

Only the Son their sense could capture

That only to Himself pertained.

What of them we can sense the clearest

Was in this manner said and thought:

Out of Your company, my Dearest,

I can be satisfied by nought.

But if aught please me, I as duly

In You, Yourself, the cause construe.

The one who satisfies Me truly

Is him who most resembles You.

He who in naught resembles You

Shall find of Me no trace or sign,

Life of My Life! for only through

Your own can I rejoice in Mine.

You are the brilliance of My light

My wisdom and My power divine,

The figure of My substance bright

In whom I am well pleased to shine!

The man who loves You, O my Son,

To him Myself I will belong.

The love that in Yourself I won

I'll plant in him and root it stron,

Because he loved the very one

I loved so deeply and so long.

Suma de la perfeccion

Olvido de lo criado,

Memoria del Criador,

Atención a lo interior

Y estarse amando al Amado

Translation: Summary of perfection

Ignoring the created and inferior;

Remembering above all things the Creator;

Attention to the life that is interior;

For the Beloved love that's always greater.

Poems of St. John of the Cross

       I promised myself that after I returned The Time Traveler's Wife, it would be my last book for this sem. But I needed some cheering up after my midterm and it just so happened that while I was looking for a collection of Neruda poems, I chanced upon a nondescript black book: The Poems of St. John of the Cross. The book contains the original Spanish poems and their translations.

I've gone through half of it, but will probably need to take a more thorough, second look on the works of this mystic saint. I must say that his words and his use of allegory and paradoxical phrases and symbolism are simply stunning. Here are some of the ones that I really like so far:

Concerning the Divine Word

With the divinest Word, the Virgin

Made pregnant, down the road

Comes walking, if you'll grant her

A room in your abode.

Other songs concernin Christ and the soul

A shepherd lad was mourning his distress,

Far from all comfort, friendless and forlorn.

He fixed his thouht upon his shepherdess

Because his breast by love was sorely torn.

He did not weep that love had pierced him so,

Nor with self-pity that the shaft was shot,

Though deep into his heart had sunk the blow,

It grieved him more that he had been forgot.

Only to think that he had been forgotten

By his sweet shepherdess, with travail sore,

He let his foes (in foreign lands begoteen)

Gash the poor breast that love had gashed before.

'Alas! Alas! for him', the Shepherd cries,

'Who tries from me my dearest love to part

So that she does not gaze into my eyes

Or see that I am wounded to the heart.'

Then, after a long time, a tree he scaled,

Opened his strong arms bravely wide apart,

And clung upon that tree till death prevailed,

So sorely was he wounded in his heart.

Dark Night of the Soul (Stanzas)

 On a darkened night,

Anxious, by love inflamed,
-- O happy chance! --
Unnoticed, I took flight,
My house at last at peace and quiet.

Safe, disguised by the night,
By the secret ladder I took flight,
-- O happy chance! --
Cloaked by darkness, I scaled the height,
My house at last at peace and quiet.

On that blessed night,
In secret, and seen by none,
None in sight,
I saw with no other guide or light,
But the one burning in my heart bright.

This guide, this light,
Brighter than the midday sun,
Led me to the waiting One
I knew so well -- my delight!
To a place with none in sight.

O night! O guide!
O night more loving than the dawn!
O night that joined
The lover with the Beloved;
Transformed, the lover into the Beloved drawn!

Upon my flowered breast,
For him alone kept fair,
There he slept
There I caressed,
There the cedars gave us air.

I drank the turret's cool air
Spreading playfully his hair.
And his hand, so serene,
Cut my throat.
Drained of senses, I dropped unaware.

Lost to myself and yet remaining,
Inclined so only the Beloved I spy.
All has ceased, all rests,
Even my cares, even I;
Lost among the lilies, there I die.

There are some more good ones in the book. Some are very long but very much worth the time.