The Eighth Day

by Laura Flanagan

This poem almost wrote itself after an experience of the Eucharist at Mass. I was struck by the hope present of those around me who were offering up their struggles, some of which I knew as a member of the community, immersed in the parish life by virtue of my work. I looked around at the people praying through the Eucharistic prayer, and recalled their sufferings: work with disabled family members; prostate cancer; recent miscarriage. Yet all were here, and praying hard. What did they find here?



I spent some time after the initial outflow of words with tweaks and improvements, but mostly did not make any materially major changes. The image of the Composer is not in any way original to me - I am fully aware that the influence came from the opening of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Silmarillion.

As I once wrote, T.S. Eliot makes me feel inadequate as a writer. This ain't no Eliot. I'm basically cribbing Scriptural lines, as you may often notice with my posts. But I still like it, and therefore I share. The difficulties which I currently must offer may be made explicit in future posts, but I hope as I grapple with them that I can continue to recognize this oblative perfection amidst imperfection, and give eucharistia for it. The final line of the poem is one of my favorites in Scripture for its truth and its hope, but it can be hard to say right now.

The Eighth

Lord, I am not worthy, but only say the word…
All that is broken, even just that which twinges
On the marble before us
Rich with precious metals, richer with love
No matter how unworthy the offerers or offering
All
Offered up, transfigured
And in the offering and by the offering
We dispose ourselves to love again, love better
Disposed to see those to whom we have been blind
     (The blind will see and the lame will walk)
     (If not this time, then perhaps next)
Disposed to hear the notes of how to Love as I AM Love
As I have Loved you
We learn the song gradually
     We learn the notes slowly (like the first hearers)
And each member of this Body adds his own strain
As the Composer intended
Intended from eternity
Go forth and sing

And each time
Caught up in the only time
Each time there is the promise
The radiance of hope, if we will see it
All that has not yet been done
All that has not yet been healed
All that has not yet been transformed
All that has not yet been redeemed
Will, in the end
Be made
Glorious

O death, where is thy victory?