Classic Poem

Lord Christ, if I might serve Thee in my heart
Within some convent close, whose quiet walls
Enfold a garden—there with Thee apart
To walk in holiness, where sunlight falls

And birds sing through the arbors all the day!
Or, if this may not be, then in my room
Warded by angels, might I hide away
And glad and silent, with my wheel and loom

In toil and meditation, maidenly,
With prayer and fasting, make my soul so white
The Blessed Virgin might reach forth to me
Her arms that cradled Thee! Lord, if I might!

But ah, the visions and the voices, Lord!
Thy heaven is all a flashing of white fire,
And every angel bears a flaming sword
Calling me forth. … Lord, if at Thy desire

I must put by the distaff and the wheel,
I am Thy handmaid. … Make me unto France
A heart of adamant and edge of steel
Like Deborah of old. Cry the advance!

Yet be Thou near, in this Thy way I take—
For look, dear God! Across it falls the shame,
The shadow of the scaffold and the stake,
And in my flesh the writhing of the flame!