She comes to me,
Queen of Mercy
Mercy drops her hand kerchief. It brushes your feet. Do not rush by. Stop to pick it up, to meet her gaze, to wipe your brow. Let her power soothe you.
Mercy is queen of compassion, pausing where you have cried out. She listens like a cow on a tumble weed plain, tongue dry and dusty, the concave belly wiser than the mind. She walks that land, her tender feet, fine-tuned ears for hearing clouds of distant thunder that so pound down, she can feel it, sense it coming, miles and days away. She carries seeds for just this moment, grace coming to her faith.
Mercy knows, water will find thirst. Water needs thirst. Trust brings that storm. Her desire is Cause, washing and cleansing the wounds of chapped lands, intuiting there, a potential oasis, the crops, the wildflowers, even sweet honey from bees sore-weary of wandering without a function.
Where, she asks, is the shade of trees grown tall in love of those who pause to rest, for those who ponder God’s plan? God’s quest for humans, needs tall trees. And there, beside her toe, a tiny sprig pops up.
Mercy bears the weight of all trauma, for a brief breath, brings you into bed, under coverlet of thick compassion, listening as you snore your story of brutality and deprivation; listening, though she knows you have no pain, no trauma that has not already been healed. All the lobotomies are already undone, an operation that restored real Mind.
Mercy’s wisdom heals the scars of hearts so dry, ears withered, the will to listen, broken, the hammer of inner strength gone weak, the song of love diminished into naught but a near silent wisp of lips.
Mercy hears that song, sings along that melodious line, remembering perfect harmonies, becoming Herself, a conductor’s baton, pulling words from the throats of receivers, who sing with gratitude, becoming again, lovers of their own fluted souls, playing their own lives free of condemnation, capable even of bending notes. Their bodies like the strings of a cello transfigure sorrow into holy beauty.
Mercy, master of forgiveness tells me, the song in its completion is pure harmlessness, all parts of self, accepted, given to Creator to manifest kindness, joy, peace, and not a victim on earth but rests in the Ear of the Beneficent Conductor.
Understand, you offer rest, cadence, or arpeggio, essential, cherished, blessed, as Mercy hears the Creator in you and cannot see causelessness, but the whole song is in the singer of Life and every part joined, transformed. Your soul, like a door to the concert hall, opens to Being, becomes a grand-hearted Christ, thrumming-throbbing with Love.
Pick up the kerchief. Do not walk by. Swab the little cloth against your face. Let it scent your breasts and inhale her power. She asks only that you bring forgiveness into your heart, acceptance of your part, your Self. She asks only that you heal. And if you so will, she shares with you the vision of Shekina, the mystic and Sophia of Truth, one who never saw a dry plain in this world where rain would not pour, nor empty vessel, nor instrument that does not, no matter how receded, know the song of Adoration.
Accept her little gift with gratitude and then, beloved, drop your handkerchief. Grab your umbrella, sing your song, as Mercy escorts a doubter, a liar, the poorest of the poor, a hungry cow, to your open door.
Shout it out, Song of Life with Libera and me.
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BzaDKky0VgI
Mercy and Love, MaryBeth
www.foundationofopenhearts.org,
mbopenheart@foundationofopenhearts.org
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