O Salutaris Hostia..

Pale stone in honey hues,
Traceried fingers
Steepling sacred space;
Still and silent
Waiting in incensed adoration.

Flames of Fire?
Mighty Winds?
Or humbled hearts
In Love's ante-chamber
Awed by self-gift?

Silver monstrance glint
Dull as the pained longing
That has seen Love's face
in haunted broken spirits.

Rich robes, embroidered
By long-dead cloistered hands,
Cannot match the beauty
Of the newly awakened soul...