Three 20-something women trying to figure out what it means to be lay, Catholic, and modern all at once.

April 7, 2009

The Four Quartets - Holy Week

I know it is not yet Good Friday, but I can't help but share a part of my favorite poem, T.S. Eliot's The Four Quartets.  Each read is a spiritual exercise for me, and this Friday I will have these words on my heart: 

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part; 
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart. 

Our only health is the disease 
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's curse, 
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse. 

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire, 
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere. 

The chill ascends from feet to knees, 
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars. 

The dripping blood our only drink, 
The bloody flesh our only food: 
In spite of which we like to think 
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood - 
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good. 

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