THE STIGMATA; FOR JOHN J. DONLAN, PH.D. by THOMAS WALSH

SILENT the mountain; on the plains below
The morning broke in silent waves afar;
And in the heart of Francis, late aglow
With prayer and passion, silence like a star.
For there had passed an angel in the night
Bearing to heaven his last surrender up:
"Useless and worthless am I in His sight,
But yet His servant!" He had drained the cup
Of ultimate sacrifice, when sudden shone
An orb spread sunlike on the morning skies;
Nearer it flashed and nearer—Seraph-Son
Of God, wast Thou Thyself revealed unto his eyes?
The six great wings spread cross-wise round the form
Of Christ upon the Tree before him bent;
There was a voice celestial, sounding warm
Secrets of heaven unto his soul attent.
There was the glory and the anguish twined
On those immortal brows; while darts of fire
From hands and feet and side on his inclined,
Meeting halfway the urge of his desire.

His side—ah, torment mixed with joy!—what wound
Of love has pierced? Through either hand there goes
A hallowed, grievous nail; unto the ground
His feet are clenched as with Love's iron blows.
So were his hands God-sealed, and so his feet
Imprinted on God's way, and so his side
Laid open blooming in Love's fire-heat,—
That to the little griefs of earth he died.

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