A Hermit's Song and Thoughts Engendered Thereby

Benedicamus Domino!

The following is a translation of an Irish poem from the 9th century. I fell in love with it when I read it in Thomas Cahill's book, How The Irish Saved Civilization. Here's the poem.

"A Hermit's Song

I long, O Son of the living God,
       Ancient, eternal King,
For a hidden hut on the wilds untrod,
       Where Thy praises I might sing;
A little, lithe lark of plumage grey
       To be singing still beside it,
Pure waters to wash my sin away,
       When Thy Spirit has sanctified it.
Hard by it a beautiful, whispering wood
       Should stretch, upon either hand,
To nurse the many-voiced fluttering brood
       In its shelter green and bland.
Southward, for warmth, should my hermitage face,
       With a runnel across its floor,
In a choice land gifted with every grace,
       And good for all manner of store.
A few true comrades I next would seek
       To mingle with me in prayer,
Men of wisdom, submissive, meek;
       Their number I now declare,
Four times three and three times four,
       For every want expedient,
Sixes two within God’s Church door,
       To north and south obedient;
Twelve to mingle their voices with mine
       At prayer, whate’er the weather,
To Him Who bids His dear sun shine
       On the good and ill together.
Pleasant the Church with fair Mass cloth,
       No dwelling for Christ’s declining
To its crystal candles, of bees-wax both,
       On the pure, white Scriptures shining.
Beside it a hostel for all to frequent,
       Warm with a welcome for each,
Where mouths, free of boasting and ribaldry, vent
       But modest and innocent speech.
These aids to support us my husbandry seeks,
       I name them now without hiding
Salmon and trout and hens and leeks,
       And the honey-bees’ sweet providing.
Raiment and food enow will be mine
       From the King of all gifts and all graces;
And I to be kneeling, in rain or shine,
       Praying to God in all places."

When I read this poem for the first time, I almost wept for joy. It was several years ago and I was taking a Religious Studies course about the trials and tribulations of the Christian Church from the time of the Jesus Movement until 1500 AD. I was rather bogged down in the politics and doctrinal disputes that we were studying, but I had decided to do a project on the Celtic Church, if indeed we can say that there was one Celtic Church. It was a little more loosely governed than the other local churches at the time, but it existed in Britain and Ireland for about three-hundred years before it was taken under Rome's mantle. The British and Irish churches did have a few differences, I think, and for my purposes at the time, I focussed mostly on the Irish church.

They had a deep sense of solitude, and even after Rome took them to itself, the monasteries of Ireland were numerous and learned institutions. They were modeled on Egyptian monasteries. There were collections of huts and monks lived there in community but also apart. I was intrigued by this way of life, and by the many stories of saints who lived very much with nature as their close companion.

I found that this way of life resonated deep within my heart and soul. Whether or not I could actually live that way, it really didn't matter. It was the idea of it that fueled something unnamable inside me. A part of me still becomes misty when I read the above poem and poems like it, and I'm sure this will always be the case. For me, joy is found not only in the tangible things of life, but in the glorious and intangible moments of true wonder which can be experienced even in a simple set of words on a page.

Deo Gratias!