Edith Stein at Seventy-Five

 

The step is already an arthritic limp,

But then, the saint’s way of perfection

Is body and blood,

And you climb the stairs to Calvary Chapel.

 

The shoulder bent under an invisible weight

Bows the head to humble incline.

With pangs like nails hammered into every joint,

A young laughing girl is birthed 

        from the wrinkled shell

Onto diamond dust shores.

 

Brilliant beyond the ken of mere mortals,

Genius comprehended over a cup of coffee

With Aquinas and Wojtyla at table,

The mind floats like ashes

Down into a lost tomb

And tastes tragedy 

Wrought by Eve’s hand,

But Eve’s Jewish daughter holds 

The soul to her bosom,​

And the tragedy is recapitulated 

        as a divine comedy

That rises from the cold pit to the empyrean.

 

The best are long quiet chapel hours

As still as a tombstone

With sitz-bones bruising thin dry skin 

        against hardwood;

Blessed by the altar,

The soul is veiled from mercy’s incinerating light

Yet bathed in eternal sun rays that

Burn away venial imperfections

Like dust polished off a tabletop.

 

With eternal beauty hidden

Under a crushing finite veil,

You await in silence

 

The final transformation

From glory unto glory.