The temptation of St. Francis (A Sunday Story) by Kai-Anne Clews

The future St. Francis, strong with youth, Knelt in a small broken chapel, seeking truth Praying at St. Damien's, he felt his inner world soar, As Christ spoke to him “Rebuild my Church Francis, go and restore!” So he started with stone, repairing church walls - First St. Damiens, then St. Peter's And to St. Mary of the Angels, he was called. The ancient church had a history of Angels That could often be sensed singing and visiting Mary there, But was long ago abandoned and in tattered disrepair. With a wild wood surrounding thickly and Thorn covered brambles overgrowing everywhere. St Mary of the Angels belonged to the Benedictines. Who admired St. Francis’ restoration of the Church of Heaven's’ Queen, They offered to give him the church, if he wished - But his vow of poverty did not allow for this. So he paid them rent each year, in the form of 1 basket of fish. The first friars and the first noble fruits, Of the Franciscan Order found their first roots, Around this little Marian church, in humble mud huts, And the devout souls therein did all things as such, As are fitting to monastic worth, Amid the Angels lingering so near the earth. One night while in a fierce battle Of temptations to discouragement and sin, Francis was so close to giving up To leaving the convent and giving in… So wracked with desperation, For the difficulties of the way, St. Francis given inspiration, Counselled himself with as if to say: “Pain to the body is often medicine to soul! I shall roll in those bramble thorns to re-humble my soul, perhaps this reminder of Christs painful wounds Will keep me from abandoning this convent too soon!“ The bramble branches were serrated with thorns, Laying thick with sharp horns like wild open jaws He sobbed at his temptation, the moonlight glinting off the spikes, He threw his body into the thorny thicket to save his soul that night. His body, he expected, to be sliced thickly with pain, But he landed softly, a grace he’d obtained... Opening his eyes under the bright gentle night, The miracle revealed under the still sweet light. All the brambles had transformed into many a thornless rose… He wept at the sweetness of what he’d been shown… All the garden was perfumed with peace St. Francis wept at the gift he’d received, And the sound of the Angels filled the nights air St. Francis gave thanks, and for the rest of his life he stayed there. Still sitting in the gentle flowers absorbed In the bliss of the Angelic choir, The heavens seemed to open up and descending Light from much higher, There the Christ he loved so dear, To dear St. Francis did then appear. “Ask whatever favour of me, and it shall be yours.”