The Song of Clare

A song! The song of troubadour
has touched my woman’s heart
within its depths, awakening
response of yearning eagerness.

Oh Francis, sing again your song.
Repeat the words you sang along
the pebbled paths you trod. I heard
an echo borne so sweet upon
a zephyred breeze, I thought my heart
to burst in raptured joy. Beneath
its measured pulse an angel song
in silence whispered praise
for God alone to hear. Repeat
the song addressed to her
for whom your life is melody
of faithfulness and ardent love.
Your song is mine and mine is yours.
The poor, the chaste, the simple Christ,
the goal of all our waking hours,
who trod the roads of Galilee
and died on hill of Calvary,
who rose from borrowed grave to fill
the world with Easter joy, is Lord
of every single breath I take,
of every beat of loving heart.

Oh Francis, sing again your song.
Before my Lord, I lay my heart
and soul. The jewels I wear are nought
beside the gems of Poverty.
The gowns that clothe my maiden form
are heavy burden, sadly borne.
My ancient name is honoured sign
of great and loyal ancestry,
but greater far is holy name
of gracious Lord I long to serve.

Oh Francis, sing again your song.
The mantle of the poor, the gems
of love for Crucified, the couch
of penance, prayerful vigils kept
beneath the star-bespangled skies-
your prayer is echo of my own.

I cast aside my earthly gold.
The simple life of troubadour
is mine, whate’er the cost. The song
you sing is also mine to raise
for all the waiting world to hear;
a song of love that cannot end,
the music of Eternity.