It isn’t much—
a shelter from the rain.
From sorrow and pain it cannot shield
this little One.
He will know heartache, my thorns
will wear, my burdens bear,
my very own tears in future
years He promises
to wipe away.
And poor the pile
of damp and musty hay, and
short the sleep before His toil
and weariness, the journeys
through my wilderness
to seek and bring me home, to
give me rest.
This small offering—
it’s all I have,
the hovel of my heart.
“Not enough!” I would say.
But stay! The enchanted
eyes of Love alight here
in me, to somehow see
a palace and a throne.
I cannot fathom
nor explain Your ravished gaze,
one glance alone
leves me enthralled, amazed.
You will more than repose,
more than receive, You will
give Love all lavishly
outpoured: This pauper
is turned princess in the embrace
of her King and Lord.
Sr. Cecilia Francis, CFR