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“It was there that I realized
That forever was in your eyes
The moment I saw you cry..”
– “Cry”, soundtrack from A Walk to Remember
With your agony, suffering, and tears, you can help God collect His dear children.
Pray day and night along with the grey monk.
You don’t have to sit on a stony bed and bleed on the side,
your hands don’t have to open wide with wounds,
and you don’t have to bend in pain like ancient tree roots,
but you must feel the fear of the world,
and carry its pain within you,
until the pain becomes compassionate cry,
until you cry out in intercession, “Set them free!”
You must pray.
Give your pain,
sacrifice a piece of yourself,
offer up your tears,
every day, every night,
until your tears run dry,
until your invisible tears overflow
in God’s eyes.
He will turn your tears into prayers.
Every tear drop is worth a human soul.
Cry all you want.
Cry all you can.
Crying is beautiful.
Crying is the least we can do.
* * *
William Blake, “The Grey Monk”
I die I die the Mother said
My Children die for lack of Bread
What more has the merciless Tyrant said
The Monk sat down on the Stony Bed
The blood red ran from the Grey Monks side
His hands & feet were wounded wide
His Body bent his arms & knees
Like to the roots of ancient trees
His eye was dry no tear could flow
A hollow groan first spoke his woe
He trembled & shudderd upon the Bed
At length with a feeble cry he said
When God commanded this hand to write
In the studious hours of deep midnight
He told me the writing I wrote should prove
The Bane of all that on Earth I lovd
My Brother starvd between two Walls
His Childrens Cry my Soul appalls
I mockd at the wrack & griding chain
My bent body mocks their torturing pain
Thy Father drew his sword in the North
With his thousands strong he marched forth
Thy Brother has armd himself in Steel
To avenge the wrongs thy Children feel
But vain the Sword & vain the Bow
They never can work Wars overthrow
The Hermits Prayer & the Widows tear
Alone can free the World from fear
For a Tear is an Intellectual Thing
And a Sigh is the Sword of an Angel King
And the bitter groan of the Martyrs woe
Is an Arrow from the Almighties Bow
The hand of Vengeance found the Bed
To which the Purple Tyrant fled
The iron hand crushd the Tyrants head
And became a Tyrant in his stead
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