My Love, I have your portrait to bring you to my mind.
Within its painted eyes I look when I would comfort find.
But its “eyes” are wells of paint; no tears they offer me;
As for seeing, Jesus Mine, no help if you had three.
And your face, my Love, so still… Can it be you love me?
Too many times, you’re still, my Love, when you are sleeping sound,
or when your face hangs down in death with angels all around.
Make me know that this is love, and something more than pain!…
Though you’re silent, I will believe I’m not alone again.
But your face, my Love, so still… Surely you must feign.
Your Eucharistic Face, my Lord, is stiller still than these,
And yet your Presence lingers here, our tainted sense to tease.
No eyes you have, and yet you see, no ears and yet you hear.
No mouth to speak your love, and yet you chase away my fear.
Your face so still, my Love, and yet I know myself most dear.
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