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Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Poem: St. John the Baptist by William Drummond, earthy 17th century

The last and greatest herald of heaven’s king,
Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild,
Among that savage brood the woods forth bring
Which he than man more harmless found and mild:

His food was locusts, and what young doth spring,
With honey that from virgin hives distilled;
Parched body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing
Made him appear long since from earth exiled.

There burst he forth: “All ye, whose hopes rely
On God, with me admist these deserts mourn;
Repent, repent, and from old errors turn.”
Who listened to his voice, obeyed his cry?

Only the echoes which he made relent,
Rung from their marble caves, Repent, repent.


  1. Father Predmore,

    You appear to be
    manning a lighthouse
    in a remote place far away.

    The Keeper of the Divine Light
    the Fresnel lens to the Sacred Heart
    the beacon to ships in trouble offshore.

    You will be living in a new home soon
    filled with people and joyful sounds
    within a community caring about each other
    many soles to listen to and to feed the
    Bread of life.

    Where you are now, maybe you can uncover
    a new hobby, think about retreats for cluster
    28 etc. Have you traced footsteps of St. Ignatius in Spain? What did you find?

    Travel safely home. Best of luck.

  2. Oh, dear poet. Thank you for this morning's inspiration. It is odd having the feast of John the Baptist in an southern hemisphere world where he must diminish (like the light) so Christ can increase. The sunrise is awesome.