Lord, when will I ripen, ready
to enroll in that course of liberation,
filled with wine but drained of blood? When
will I quit this sad rummaging and oscillation,
crack the looking glass and scatter the shards;
settle fixedly (like that famous pumpkin stone)
outside the door of my Lord’s charnel house,
(which was once, apparently, a noted tavern)
to long desperately, like Francis before me,
to be crushed into singing dust
by the Master’s hand and hammer;
strewn along Love Street (under His feet),
to rise and dance only at His passing by;
to cling lightly then to His skirt and sandals
and be carried inside the great manor,
courtyard and darbar of the Beloved?
Lord, when will I ripen?
When will I be ready?
O child of God, surrender (also like Francis)
your impatience to the whim of His immaculate timing.