by CJ Couvillion
You call to me, Sweet Ecstasy, and in Your Voice I hear, the quiet rush of flapping wings and of Your Love so dear.
You call to me, Sweet Ecstasy, as sleep from me departs, and in the night You heal and mend the source of broken heart.
You call to me, Sweet Ecstasy, while driving on to work, and landmarks clearly mark the place where he would still there lurk.
You call to me, Sweet Ecstasy, to be whom I would be, though lonely, hurting and pained in mind, yet full of Your wild glee.
Sweet Ecstasy, You wound me still, but make me new, while all the while they see, a soul at rest, a heart pierced through, the man You made of me.
Sweet Ecstasy, I wonder where the fears of life have gone, which took their toll and wrenched a soul and tore my mind apart, while all the while I was Your child and safely in Your Heart.
Sweet Ecstasy, I thank You and the armies You sent to invade a quiet and a peaceful life, a life not much worth saving, a life spent getting by, while all the world stood blazing.
I was Your old Jerusalem of 587 B.C., as when the wall was breached, as Jeremiah preached, as the Eastern hoards rushed in to see, and burned alive the poor starved souls, and defiled Your Temple in me in me.
Sweet Ecstasy, You know no bounds, there is no one out of your reach, no man or woman or country or people You do not own and will not seek to teach.
Your methods are not my own. You surprise and terrorize and raze and destroy, while all the while you send the Dove to soothe and heal and fill with Love.
Oh, Sweet Ecstasy, who are You Who does this to me, a God of Love and Majesty?, a God Who knows the pain I feel, and uses it to make me heal?, a God like You I will adore.
But, Oh Sweet Ecstasy, I am the man you made of me, but she is still in tatters, and wants to know why her dear Son lies in that box of ashes.
The Feast of St. Stephen, Martyr