I rise at the break of dawn,
said Sister Clare, I rise
like the lark into morning sky,
my arms out stretched like
the wings of a bird in flight;
I leave my bed, I leave my
dreams for the owls of night.

The bell rings, the voice of
my Groom calls, His voice
softer than a falling leaf, His
words enter my mind and heart,
His love fills me, touches each
part of my deepest self, echoes
along the strings of my nerves.

I dress like one for a wedding,
clothe myself with simple array,
black and white and grey; my
feet are simply clad, sandals
sans stockings or tights, my
hair hidden from sight, my
face alone is seen by the world.

I walk along the cloister like
one in love, my Groom awaits
me in the chapel, His arms
spread wide, His hands nailed
to the large wooden cross; His
eyes are closed, His heart is open,
His love flows from His wounds.

I go to my place in the choir, I
open my book of prayer, I sing
His praises, sensing Him there,
my Love, My Groom, my dear
Wounded Lamb, my King of Kings.
My  lips sing to Him, my voice
steady as one in flight, my hands
would feel His pain, His wounds
I would bathe, I would cleanse.

My heart is His, my life, my ticking
time of deed and thought, my body
is His, my waking hour is His to
tell or take, to let me sleep or wake.

I go about my day, I do my deeds,
I work and pray, I think of Him as
I do my chores, think on His coming
hour, His raising the dead, His sadly
separating sheep from goats, as the
Good Book said, I think of His healing
touch, His firm words upon the air,
I sense Him near, I feel His hand upon
my brow, I wish He would come to me now.