Heart of Jesus in whom are all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. Heart of Jesus, in whom dwells the fullness of divinity.
Jesus, the Son of Virgin Mary...
How beautiful these words, how rainbowling; each is a sparkle ball, I roll and wash over them and they paint themselves in front of my eyes, within, somehow in a new straight-up manner, and finally almost in some feminine manner like the murmuring of the clock as Orwell wrote of clocks, each minute sounds from their clock's mouth alike - but how one minute, hour occurs colored - grievely and oh! sunny - under the same accompaniment of wall type dimmer. Maybe O God, maybe this is the most comfortable instrument for emigrants like we are in your Land in Yours Sion, till we trespass the Kingdom (is it possible?) by our will, like me, for I feel myself an emigrant in Heaven, and these words "Jesus, the Son of Virgin Mary" I dare to leaf as my book-guide.
Even the sparrow has found a house, and the swallow, a nest for herself,
where she may lay her young: Thy altars, o Lord of Hosts, my King and My God. (Ps. 83)
My longing for Your altar brought me here to the threshold of Your House without any hope for surviving in another reality but King David did dream even though of it... it was his despair when he said this, I see it now, for this state of mind is emigration, but being alone its is not pleasant, though all around here are so gentle and kind to you as if it was your family.
And I dive again into these Jesus, the Son of Virgin Mary - I passionately catch these crumbs from your Altar, O Lord, and they move me on.
