I look upon your face, my Son,
upon the abyss of your mystery,
which is so deep that I could lose myself in it
were it not but a perfect reflection
of the abyss that I am.
Behold! today I have begotten you,
in this ceaseless day of eternity,
which has no dawn and no dusk,
no beginning or end,
but is endless fullness of life and love.
But indeed, it bears within it such richness,
such abundance of grace,
that all the hues cast by the rising sun
across the sky,
lighting up the earth with brilliance,
and all the dancing colors streaking across heaven,
filling the air in the closing of the day,
all the changes of seasons and times,
all forms of weather—thunderclap,
lightning-beams, the gentle dripping of the rain,
the wind, the calm, the heat and the gentle cool—
are all like so many reflections
of that single light,
undivided, pure,
which passes eternally from me to you,
and from you to me.

Like gathering moisture
which distills
into a single drop,
upon the edge of a
leaf in the early morning dew—
so love distills,
my Father,
as the gift of creation.
The whole ocean of divinity,
majestic immense,
the roaring of the waves,
so great, yet so calm
that they cannot be heard by mortal ears,
becomes but a single drop of water,

The single mystery becomes refracted light,
the One, many and multifaceted.
Yet abundance, too, becomes so small,
the infinite and uncontainable,
veiled in forms of flesh, plant, animal, and earth.
Yet man and woman, above all, my Son,
in our image we create,
breathing into them our Spirit—life.
How can a tiny mirror reflect the whole expanse of sky?
However you position it, won’t it reflect but a part?

They reflect, dear Father,
not by way of containing
—as a glass contains water,
or even as the shores contain the sea—
but as gazing eyes contain the sky
with its immensity of stars,
or as a glance of love
enfolds in the heart’s embrace
the mystery of the beloved.

My Son, they reflect this image, this likeness,
because I breathe upon them
the Breath that passes eternally between you and I,
and when I look,
I imprint upon them
—as light waves caught within the eye—
the image of my Beloved One.
It is in you, Son, that I alone create.

But they are, Father,
more than a passing ray of light
succeeded by darkness,
or a glance which the mind soon forgets.
I dwell among them: enduring Word of God.

Dwell, Son:
be the Word made flesh.
Yes! The light is more
than a mere reflection upon the glass.
Knit together in the womb,
spirit, flesh, sinews, and bone,
a Son is conceived in time
by a lowly mother
who is begotten from all eternity
by the eternal Father.
Born, in a single moment,
in a poor and lowly manger,
you who are born eternally
in my sheltering bosom, so full of love.

This is my body,
taken from her who reflects the light of love,
radiantly refracted in so many ways
throughout the history of the world,
concentrated again in her,
like a single intense beam of light,
sealing a marriage between God and man.
A scroll with writing on both front and back,
a library with more books than the world could contain,
is now contained in that soft flesh
of a little child.

A silent glance, a look of love
between mother and child,
shares in that eternal glance
between you and I,
my Son.

Here is more than words can express,
however much time or ink one has—
yet less.

Deeper within,
in the depths of love,
less is more.

Less, my Father,
less I will be,
deeper, further into their lives,
until all words and activity
—the whole life of a man—
reaches but a single point:

The Spirit is breathed silently
from that failing, broken body
upon a Cross.
This says all…

And yet…

And yet, my Son.

The undivided light
breaks forth anew,
to gather from the four corners
into the fullness of the light’s embrace—

—the eternal Breath of Love
between you and I,

all becomes a single gift,
accepted from your hands,
and given, in this flesh of mine,
to those whom you have given me.

All of life, the whole of man,
yes—the whole of God—
distilled, my Son, to a single point,
where less is more,
where All is contained within the least,
a bit of bread, a drop of wine:

This is my Body,
this, my Blood…


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