Sun-parched earth stretches for confounding miles,
strewn with stones. A rocky edifice here
imposes its towers, yonder
cleaves the dust, a shelter
for scraggled plants eking out subsistence.
Is it here that You lead?
Into thirsting days and nights that long
for a ray of warming light?
Hardest, not the dearth of food
nor toiling, tiring days, nor wind-chilled
nights; rather, a bleary mind,
blank and hungry, bowed under
irritability, petty pride,
self-seeking,
traveling bubbling ways
of distraction that melt to mist, athirst
for the whisper of Your voice
But, oh! when You come
the desert remembers her beauty,
her blooms more vivid for their rarity.
And You will cleanse and You will fill
and You will change
the wasteland into Paradise,
if I but wait
upon Your Word—
wait patiently.
Sr. Cecilia