Home arrow Inspiration
Inspiration
Here we have collections of spiritual poems, poetry, reflections and websites, to uplift and inspire.

Prayer

I Choose to Breathe the Breath of Christ

I choose to breathe the breath of Christ
that makes all life holy.

I choose to live the flesh of Christ
that outlasts sin’s corrosion and decay.

I choose the blood of Christ
along my veins and in my heart
that dizzies me with joy.

I choose the living waters flowing from his side
to wash and clean my own self and the world itself.

I choose the awful agony of Christ
to charge my senseless sorrows with meaning
and to make my pain pregnant with power.

I choose you, good Jesus, you know.

I choose you, good Lord;
count me among the victories
that you have won in bitter woundedness.

Never number me among those alien to you.

Make me safe from all that seeks to destroy me.

Summon me to come to you.

Stand me solid among angels and saints
chanting yes to all you have done,
exulting in all you mean to do forever and ever.

Then for this time, Father of all,
keep me, from the core of my self,
choosing Christ in the world.  Amen.

– Joseph Tetlow SJ

Joseph Tetlow is a professor of spiritual theology.  Many of the prayers attributed to him are taken from a manual entitled “Choosing Christ in the World.”  It is designed to help people experience the spiritual exercises over an extended period of time as they go about their daily tasks.

This prayer is a contemporary paraphrase of the Anima Christi – a favorite prayer of St. Ignatius which he placed at the beginning of his book of spiritual exercises.  He frequently suggested that the retreatant conclude a prayer period by reciting this prayer.

 

Random Image

churchphoto.jpg

Inspiration

Wet as willow-white

Wet as willow-white

In the tear light of morning,

In the sweat of night’s labor to lift

The dark hand from the dead land,

We wait and are alone.

 

When wax in the shrill wind

Stops the sap to stone,

Fear sees the signs and whistles.

Again we wait. Again we are alone

 

The old crier taps the windows of the forests

And tells them to shut down.

A mist sits hard upon the wicks of flowers

And worms have curled around the hours.

Yet we wait. Yet we are alone.

 

But in the ancient kneeling-house of incense,

Lodged among the plaster-molded men,

In sooted, flickering shrines

A Crucifix dimly plies the wind

With the unseen vision of renewal.

Harold Buckley