Fragrant Lines Crìost, Rider of the Clouds, Your love upwells within me. Yet when the perfume of Your words weaves between the clouds becomes so familiar why does its freshness wane? Has my attention has been consumed by a labyrinth of dissenting words, rival rituals and diverse claims on the paschal of Chrìost woven since Eden’s time: Does this vast spectrum of refractions devour my mind and sensibility? Will my quest to see what Church Fathers and Saints east to west sought, fought and taught clarify my understanding? Or shall past reforms, schisms and tyrannous rage of fallen powers cloud sensitivity to The Way of the Cross? Shall I lay my head in the clevage of tradition’s memory and revelations unveiled, there break bread with Crìost? And if from memory’s experience, tradition’s rituals and modernity's mind I succumb to that perverse pursuit, manufacture some enforced fragrance that instead turns my heart to stone. O Crìost rescue me! Only one safe place can I go to restore communion with Crìost, a thin place in my innerscape my forebears know, where only those gather who walk amid the scent of Psalms there wait between the lines of travail for Ìosa Crìost to come, dwell. For His presence alone shall rouse my sensibility. He shall descend into my hardened heart and my heart shall ascend by the fragrance of Crìost. Crìost, Rider of the Clouds, breaks into my confession: “Let your heart become resplendent, follow the call of An Gèadh Fiadhaich; Let the Spirit’s fragrance be your breath. Come follow Rider of the Clouds, eat at my table and sit with me, recalcitrant bleakness shall fall away. Lay your your head upon My breast, your head shall rise and fall upon my breath.”
© Craig A Roberts, 2024 Ìosa Crìost: Scots-Gaelic / name of Jesus Christ An Gèadh Fiadhaich: “The Wild Goose”, a Celtic poetic name for the Holy Spirit - untamed by humanity. Photo: Author