She's my heart

My
soulmate
The light of
my life
She brings
music
to my
Heart

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY
by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)

HE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

The Sacred Reunion
by Margaret Starbird from her must-have book The Woman with the Alabaster Jar

Shrouded in mists of time
she waits alone in the garden,
veiled, her name obscured,
the forsaken Rose.
Lost counterpart of Logos, the Word,
Son of the Father,
reason and righteousness,
the eternal He.
Forgotten Eros,
the passionate one,
the eternal She,
left prostrate on the ground.
"The Bride is as dark---
but lovely---
as the tents of Cedar.
Do not stare at her because she is swarthy,
because the sun has burned her.
She has labored in her brothers' vineyards;
her own she has not kept." (Cant. 1:5-6)
The Bride,
parched from her toil
in the scorching sun,
dark, dried, and withered.
Black Madonna,
mother of the afflicted poor,
God's raisins,
burned in the relentless rays
of Logos, victor, judge, and sword.
Male image of a sovereign God
raised to heaven's throne---
alone.
Eagerly she sought him,
but watchmen came upon her,
struck and wounded her,
the guardians of the walls.
Her plight is mirrored now
in Czestochowa's icon,
a gash upon her cheek,
the abused, abandoned one---
the Derelicta.
Noli me tangere:
"Do not touch me,"
For centuries the echo:
Noli me tangere.
The Ascended One,
adored and glorified---
untouchable,
the handsome prince,
Lion of Judah and Lamb of God
seated at the Father's hand
and ruling from his throne---
alone.
But now, at last, he seeks her.
He calls for her.
He knows the name of the Rose.
Exhausted and parched
in wretchedness,
she hears him call her name.
She stirs, raises her head, and looks around.
"Who speaks?"
Her heart beats faster.
"Can it be he?
Has he returned at last for me?"
The garden where he left her
is now a wasteland---
scarred, dried, and shriveled.
Trees are stunted,
streams of living water
only a trickle.
Thickets of thorn
surround the garden,
barring his way.
With the sword of truth
he must hack them to pieces
to reach his beloved.
At last he finds her,
still clasping her alabaster jar.
Her joyful tears fall at his feet.
A second time she dries them with her hair.
But now he reaches for her hand.
"Come, beloved; it is time.
Let us go together into the vineyard
to see if the vines are in bloom." (Cant. 7:13)
Hand in hand now,
they walk in the desert garden.
And where their feet tread
a violet springs up from the ground,
an anemone lifts its head.
In their wake
buds swell on barren bough.
"No longer will you be called 'forsaken'
and your lands 'desolate,'
but you shall be called 'beloved,'
and your lands 'espoused'" (Isa. 62:4)
He whispers her name,
savoring its taste
delighting in the Bride of his longing.
Mary...

As the voices of the brook
Speak its magic
I stop and ponder the mysteries of its nature.

It speaks of how it
Refreshes
And brings
Life to its neighbors
Yet it stays
Unperturbed
As it flows around the
Rocky
Obstacles of life
Remaining true
To its way
Only if humanity
Could adopted
Such a way.