Plunket poems

Joseph Mary Plunkett, one of my favorite poets, was born in Dublin at the end of the 19th century. He was an amazing scholar, and apparently had an attraction for the works of Saint John of the Cross, St. Theresa of Avila, and Francis DeSales, which definitely comes out in his writings. They themselves are not only patterned after the mystics, but seem to be somewhat mystical in themselves. He joined the Easter Rebellion against the tyranny of the English, was apprehended and condemned to death. On the morning of his execution, May 4, 1916, he married his fiance, Grace Gifford. He was executed that day at the age of 28. This is one of my favorite poems he writes, so evident of the wonder and glory of God.

I See His Blood Upon the Rose

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.


Another favorite:
The Splendour of God

The drunken stars stagger across the sky,
The moon wavers and sways like a wind-blown bud,
Beneath my feet the earth like drifting scud
Lapses and slides, wallows and shoots on high;
Immovable things start suddenly flying by,
The city shakes and quavers, a city of mud
And ooze—a brawling cataract is my blood
Of molten metal and fire—like God am I.

When God crushes his passion-fruit for our thirst
And the universe totters—I have burst the grape
Of the world, and let its powerful blood escape
Untasted—crying whether my vision durst
See God’s high glory in a girl’s soft shape—
God! Is my worship blessed or accurst?


My Lady has the Grace of Death

My lady has the grace of Death
Whose charity is quick to save,
Her heart is broad as heaven’s breath,
Deep as the grave.

She found me fainting by the way
And fed me from her babeless breast
Then played with me as children play,
Rocked me to rest.

When soon I rose and cried to heaven
Moaning for sins I could not weep,
She told me of her sorrows seven
Kissed me to sleep

And when the morn rose bright and ruddy
And sweet birds sang on the branch above
She took my sword from her side all bloody
And died for love