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
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