A River of Tears

I have learned how to cry again;
A river of tears.
It is not a torrent but a leaky faucet.
For a while I could not cry,
But now I am able.
For my sins, for those of the world,
For my poor Emily;
Was she ever real or just a fig tree
Of my imagination?
A bitter fruit or a dove?
I am not innocent. I am so very innocent.
I am a crow. I am a dove.
I am a poor sinner.
I speak to the pines;
I pine away for my poor poor soul.
I am innocent as a dove as wicked as the raven
Who gouged out poor Gesmas' eyes
after the crucifixion
While he was still alive.
He screamed out in pain,
But God did not hear him.
For his blasphemies before the face of our redeemer,
Repentance was not for him.

There is a mouse in our house.
My mother wants to kill him,
But I am kind to him.
I want him to stay.
I will feed him tea and oranges
That come all the way from China.
Did I tell you that my father
Looks just like Leonard Cohen?

I cry when I think about the Annunciation.
And I cry when I think of the Crucifixion.
The conception and the redemption.
I am not afraid. I have no fear,
For the good God is with me;
He comforts me and give me peace
In this world of pain; For pain is dear to me.
It helps me grow and mature.
Without pain there is no progress,
Without progress, no victory.
Through pain and through prayer
Suffering and giving thanks
The two-handed engine of Saint Peter
That the poets sing of in forbidden poems
The songs of victory of the losers
The poet who won the laurels of earthly victory
But lost the heavenly crown of glory
The boxer who won the corruptible crown
But lost the eternal crown in heaven.

They speak of Esau selling his birthright
For a bowl or lentils. I have eaten lentils
And they are sweet and lovely.
I would not trade them for the world;
They give me solace in this world of pain.
But my soul is worth more than a thousand
Bowls of lentils. An infinity of lentils.
The pearl of great price is bought cheap
It only costs a few Hail Mary's
But its value is beyond measure.
I will feast on Mondays and Tuesdays
And Thursdays and Sundays.
I will Fast on Wednesdays and Fridays
And Saturdays.

The Cross, the Cross, my kingdom for the Cross.
The world for the Cross, but who would make that trade?

I had a vision in the hospital. A man sold his soul for a year worth of pleasure,
And the pleasure passed and he was bitter.
Then he came back and sold his soul again for a month of pleasure,
And the pleasure passed and he was bitter.
Then he sold his soul again for a week of pleasure,
And the pleasure passed and he was bitter.
Then he sold his soul again for a day of pleasure,
And the pleasure passed and he was bitter.
Then he sold his soul again for an hour of pleasure,
And the pleasure passed and he was bitter.
Then he sold his soul again for a minute of pleasure,
And the pleasure passed and he was bitter.
Then he sold his soul again for a second of pleasure,
And the pleasure passed and he was bitter.
He kept on selling his soul again and again;
And each time his soul was worth less and less,
And the pleasure gained was less and less.
But the devil made the trade;
Again and again and again.

In my vision he did not die;
His soul was dead of course,
But the Judgment had not yet come.
He was too ashamed to turn to the Lord.
His sins were too great.
But we must pray that he does so turn.
With the help of the Blessed Mother,
He must come before the seat of the Good God.
Before the Cross, in the wedding garment
Fashioned by His Mother, and beg the pardon
Of the Good God he so often blasphemed.

And all will be forgiven, but he must turn.
As often as you sell your soul to the devil,
God is willing to pay the ransom.
All he asks is to love him and forgive others
As you have been forgiven.
And he will soften your heart of stone
And make it flesh and blood.
And you will cry a river of tears
For a year; for thousands of years
And you will have peace and happiness
For the rest of your days
And you will be buried happily
In an unmarked grave.

But the angels will remember you and the good Mother too
And nothing on earth will be as beautiful as you.

A poem of happy tears by Julian Moore.