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James K. Baxter Complete Prose Volume 3

[Lord, always the same weariness!]

[Lord, always the same weariness!]

Lord, always the same weariness! The body is an instrument of suffering. This forty-three year old body can walk, talk, carry a billy of milk. It is heavy and old like a moulting penguin. The alcohol stripped away the insulation from the nerves. It does not sleep well. From now till when it dies it will hurt more, not less. Blessed be the body, the instrument of suffering!

Lord, always the same clogged mind! The mind is a bog of fantasies, a quilt burnt full of holes, like one that covers an old drunk who falls asleep with a cigarette in his hand. It longs to be agile and free. Half the memory banks page 116 have been burnt out, Lord. It may serve, though, as stepping stones for others to walk on. Blessed be the mind, the instrument of suffering!

Lord, always the same dark soul! It knows it is nothing, but longs to be a different nothing – the bride folded for ever on your breast! You have married this soul to the Many. She is like a prostitute who has to sleep with a thousand men – longing always for the peace of childhood, where the long grasses float on the creek water, where the sun shines in a pure sky, where she can see only You and what You created. But she has to be broken and eaten, eaten by rotten teeth, mauled by dirty hands, like the loaves and the fishes. Blessed by the soul, the instrument of suffering!

Lord, I am talking to you but I want nothing. Except that the Many should all come into your Kingdom. Fill them with gladness. Let them be joyful, Lord. And do not even let me know whether there is a place for me there. That is not the point of prayer.

Lord, don’t let me hurt you, or hurt them. If there has to be pain, put it on this old donkey’s back.

Lord, you are the Everlasting Beauty the Sun shining on the fields of paradise. To know that is enough. And if you take even that knowledge from me, I will try not to complain.

Most beautiful in your dying – most beautiful covered with blood – most beautiful blinded by the blow of a fist – most beautiful with the hair matted – most beautiful without coherent knowledge – most beautiful in agony of soul – most beautiful in dereliction –

Jesus, my King, I desire only this life and death, because it is your Cross. 1970? (600)