In the petals of the rose, I see a trace of His blood,
In the stars, the brightness of His eyes,
The flowers carry the features of His face,
Heaven bedews the fountain of His tears.

The everlasting snow has the white of His body
Whether in the roar of the thunder or the song of the birds,
I hear only the tune of His voice,
His beating heart is the rhyme of the wave.

I read His writing in the wild rock,
Every road carries a trade of His foot print,
Thorns weave themselves into His crown,
And every tree throws shade on His cross.

                                                      --Josef-Maria Plunkett

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