A Poem, a Prayer, and a Passage #6

A Poem: “Why All This Waste?”

by Peter Kwasniewski

Why all this waste?
This waste of silk and linen, gold and silver,
Incense, marble, rarest woods and precious stones,
Particolored glass, and iron curiously wrought,
Contrived, collected, and deployed in one small space
When everywhere without,
The poor in multitudes unnumbered
Shiver in ramshackle huts and threadbare rags,
Begging or stealing their next life-saving morsel,
None the better for the temple’s gaudy exhibition.

Let her alone.
Let Holy Mother Church alone,
For she hath done a beautiful thing to Me,
Which every age to come shall gratefully recall
And ever profit by.
She hath prepared My body for its burial,
My burial in the heart of each poor sinner,
That, deeply buried there,
In sight and sound and scent,
I may be welcomed, honored, and adored
As hidden Lord of soul and flesh,
First, Last, innermost and highest,
Who, rising into glory,
Will raise the One in whom I live.
This the poor man needs
If he would bear his deprivation,
If he would know the glorious destiny
To which I summon him.
This the rich man needs
If he would spend his wealth
On goods for Me and for men,
Which will not drag his soul to hell.

Quiet, Judas.
Let cease your noisy cavils.
The love of things corrupts your love of Me.
The one who loves the world
Becomes its slave
Unless he offers it to Me,
In the temple of my Church,
In the temple of your heart.

Blessed are the poor in spirit,
For they shall inherit the new earth
And the new heavens,
Foreshadowed here upon this glorious altar,
In this sanctuary sublime.
Mary hath chosen the better part—
She hath chosen to sit at my feet
And lavish all her substance on my flesh
And listen to the secrets of my heart—
And it shall not be taken from her.