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The Pig's Meditation


Has your company so disillusioned you
That you found your way to me?
Are my tusks of corn of a higher grain
Than the bread that warped
Your mind as pleasures crumbled
At your blistered feet?

I belong here, this is my turf
I was created to scrape for food in mud
But you are a higher creation
Made for greater things

Go home, young man, go home
Your Father's table holds a nobler
Spread to give you life
Go home and leave this mud of spirit
This debris of body that warps your soul
Go home and leave this place
For you are made of better soil
The Father waits for you
That He may sing His song

Creator, God, Who made me to grovel in this dirt
Is it thus You grieve when Your sons
Waste their inheritance
Ending with the likes of me?
Have they lost their place
When I so well know mine?

Mire belongs to me but raise him
To the innocence of his first love
Then, mid all the hours of celebration
Remember, Father,
'Twas I, the pig, who drove him home

Sr. Judith Piszyk, OSBM

 

Jottings by Judith Home

 

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