Letters to our Mother

Oratory yard bells ring on a slow Saturday morn,
Beckon and bring to prayer the fragiley faithful.
Hortatory words tell the meaning of our who:
Something about mercy, hope, and sacrifice?
I sit here, silent, in a simple seat shouting,
"O rose of such virtue, where are you?
And how did you?" 
For much do I struggle to take up my cross, 
In fear that I might carry
Not the one I can, a burden that is not mine.

I think on what has brought me here,
On what has left me in this place,
On what has sustained me thus,
And of what most keeps my heart in His.
And I think that... perhaps... it is not this,
That maybe I have been spoken to 
In a quite different way
Than I have demanded as of late.

Be it that this pervasive sense of longing,
Which has spoken hence to boyhood
Is not what I need lay down and is even
The very thing constantly called forth
From the depths of my whatness,
Then I will yield you the benefit of doubt,
To see where this winding, cross-strewn road,
Which I have narrowed far more than even your Christ's,
May lead me in so meek an hour.
Ecce filius tuus, ecce mater tua.