BY AVELLINA BALESTRI

“How holy and beloved, how pleasing and lowly, how peaceful, delightful, lovable and desirable above all things it is to have a Brother like this, who laid down his life for his sheep.” – St. Francis of Assisi

***

We Christians are condemned

Ever to be crucified.

It is our binding and our breaking,

Our harrowing hope.

It is our only exaltation.

There, upon the tree,

We must be mocked and pierced.

We must thirst and bleed.

The story told repeats,

And everywhere we turn,

The wide arms of wood embrace us.

We are haunted by its shadow,

The dark side of our salvation.

It is our template, our blueprint.

It is the bones, and we the flesh.

It is the mold, and we the metal.

There is no escape, no turning back.

We flee from point to point,

And still…

 It pursues and pervades all.

Francesco begged it as a boon,

His arms pinioned, palms punctured,

Honey and vinegar on his tongue,

Immersed in agony and ecstasy,

Rough wool cast aside,

As once he cast off his father’s silks,

He lay naked unto God,

Awaiting Sister Death.

Winged Seraphs sealed his lips,

And the light of his eyes was dimmed.

He is the cut and crux of Man,

Flesh and blood and bone,

Caught in rapture and rupture,

Incarnate consummation.

The leper’s kiss,

The sultan’s embrace,

The outcast and the enemy,

Made one in this Body,

An icon of Christ.

For him, God left a letter,

Words written in wounds,

Ruby red and running out,

Love unto death, the prophet’s song

And Nature’s symphony.

But he had once been a prodigal

Before hearing the piteous cry

And mighty invitation:

“Francis, rebuild My House!

Take My Body from the Tree

And be My Body now!

Leave the playhouse;

 Join the feast!”

Yes, lift high the Cross

From which we may not flee,

For Christ draws all men to Himself,

Trampling down death by death

So that in dying we may be born anew.

Francesco is us, and we are him,

Struggling saints of the same communion.

We are the cross-bearers, “crusaders”,

Called to fight the long defeat;

And destined to be slain and saved.

Our body is not our own;

Like bread, it must be broken to feed.

Our blood is not our own;

Like wine, it must be poured for drink.

The yearnings of the universe well up,

And we enter the suffering of the starving

And the mystery of the quenching.

The Word is spoken and made Man,

And we are woven through His ribs,

Dying heart, squeezed shut lungs.

We are His Body now, the sacramental seal

Imprinted upon our waxen world,

Melting from sin and sorrow,

To grant it pardon, to bring it peace.