What we have confined, O Love,
you have exploded.

What we have defined, O Love,
you have confounded.

What we have constrained, O Love,
you have released.

What we have diminished, O Love,
you have overflowed.

What we have cast in stone, O Love,
you have made to dance.

What we have discarded, O Love,
you have set as foundational.

So now what can we say, except that
Love is our confession and our hope,
our penance and our release;
Love is the mystery of the angelic chorus
and the strength of a mother’s grief;
Love is the impossibility
for which we have made every possible substitution.

Come, O Love, and let us have no other gods. Come!

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