Poem: St. Therese of Lisieux “Abandonment” [Vol. 1, #39]

ABANDONMENT

"Abandonment is the delicious fruit of love."

-- St. Augustine.

   I saw upon this earth

   A marvelous tree arise;

   Its vigorous root had birth,

   O wonder! in the skies.

   Never, beneath its shade,

   Can aught disturb or wound;

   There tempests are allayed,

   There perfect rest is found

   And love men call this tree,

   From heaven's high portals sent;

   Its fruit, how fair to see!

   Is named abandonment.

   What banquet here doth greet

   Each reverent, hungry guest!

   How, by its odors sweet,

   The spirit is refreshed!

   If we its fruit but touch,

   Joy seems on us to pour.

   Oh, taste, -- for never such

   A feast was yours before.

   In this tumultuous world

   It brings us perfect peace;

   Though storms be round us hurled,

   Its quiet shall not cease.

   Abandonment gives rest

   In Thee, O Jesus Christ!

   Here is the food most blest

   That has Thy saints sufficed.

   Spouse of my soul, draw nigher!

   I give my all to Thee.

   What more can I desire

   Than Thy sweet Face to see?

   Naught can I do but smile,

   Safe folded to Thy breast.

   They who have known no guile

   Find there most perfect rest.

   As looks the floweret small

   Up to the glorious sun,

   So I, though least of all,

   Seek my Beloved One.

   King Whom I love the most!

   The star I always see

   Is Thy White Sacred Host,

   Little and low like me;

   And its celestial power,

   Down from Thy altar sent,

   Wakes in my heart that flower, --

   Perfect abandonment.

   All creatures here below,

   At times, they weary me;

   And willingly I go,

   With God alone to be.

   And if, sometimes, dear Lord,

   Of me Thou weariest,

   I wait upon Thy word;

   Thy holy will is best.

   Smiling, I wait in peace,

   Till Thou return to me;

   And never shall they cease, --

   My songs of love for Thee.

   All pain I now despise,

   Naught can disquiet me;

   Swifter than eagle flies,

   My spirit flies to Thee.

   Beyond the gloomy cloud,

   Ever the skies are fair,

   And angels sing aloud,

   And God is reigning there.

   And yet without a tear

   I wait that bliss above,

   Who in the Host have here

   The perfect fruit of love.

   May, 1897