October is the month of the Holy Rosary. Here are 10 ways you can more closely align your life and home to the Rosary. Perhaps some of these wonderful devotions will stick around your domestic church even after October is over!
Perry Como “The Rosary”
In spring, Israel’s almond trees are clouds
of petals, wrapping bark in pink and white.
The blossom branches, like bride’s veils, or shrouds—
eager to hold God’s embryonic light.
It was just after dawn. I’d walked outside
with sacred longing’s wildflower prayer.
The angel’s words engulfed me like a tide.
I swam into the blessing and the dare.
There in the courtyard, crimson poppies bloomed
among the grass, like rubies, or like blood.
There when I breathed the almond air, perfumed,
my womb was spring, God’s Word a new-formed bud.
In prayer, I knelt to gather blooms of red—
my joyful sacrifice, the yes I’d said.
My joyful sacrifice: the yes I’d said.
In prayer, I knelt to gather blooms of red—
my womb was spring, God’s Word a new-formed bud,
there when I breathed the almond air, perfumed.
Among the grass, like rubies, or like blood,
there in the courtyard, crimson poppies bloomed.
I swam into the blessing and the dare.
The angel’s words engulfed me like a tide,
with sacred longing’s wildflower prayer.
It was just after dawn. I’d walked outside
eager to hold God’s embryonic light.
The blossom branches, like bride’s veils, or shrouds
of petals, wrapping bark in pink and white.
In spring, Israel’s almond trees are clouds.
First published in Dappled Things
Like wine, your days of freedom have run short.
The lyre and the flute play sweetly still—
the wedding dancers carelessly cavort,
but you have come to do your mother’s will.
You take six jars and fill them to the brim.
And as the water flows you say goodbye
to your life as a private person, dim
the light on who you were, prepare to die.
A carpenter knows when the wood is planed
enough. You might have liked more time to smooth
your readiness for what had been ordained.
Instead you gave your splintered joy and youth.
This is your wedding too. Tonight you give
yourself—to ministry; that we might live.
When Abraham led Isaac to the knife
an angel stopped his fearful act of love.
Here I present to God my child’s life—
as after he was born. Each turtle dove
my husband and I offered, while I held
our infant closely, signified release.
His consecrated will would be upheld.
I will not seek to gain Abraham’s peace
today. I know my child will be killed—
in willing adoration. I stay near,
and stroke his feet. His swollen eyes are filled
with blood. You ask me what I feel? Not fear,
but sorrow’s insect tearing me with stings—
new labor pains, a pull like rushing wings.
New labor pains, a pull like rushing wings,
my breathing quickens as his muscles twitch.
Abraham’s vast descendants: slaves and kings—
How many million more souls can Christ stitch
into his cradle crown with every thorn?
How many children Calvary will birth.
His arms are spread wide, like when he was born—
as though he measured, east to west, the worth
of all the world and found it very good.
He didn’t cry. I loved his perfect mouth.
I still do, as he sighs upon the wood—
the sacred compass rooting north to south.
I love this child more than my own breath.
With one last cry, his labor conquers death.
A mother knows her son’s hands like her own.
As he holds up a diadem of stars,
I only see his missing flesh and bone.
Sweet music swells: lutes, trumpets and guitars—
I’m focused on the spaces in his palms.
Through them, I see the sky. Through them, pure light.
Those chasms are more beautiful than psalms.
His marked hands are my sorrow and delight.
A gleaming crescent moon supports my feet.
The sun, stripped of its burn, wraps me in glow
A throne of pearl is given as my seat.
I’m back with him again—that’s all I know.
I clasp his hand. Each finger is my jewel.
I’d do it all again. That is my rule.
I’d do it all again. That is my rule.
I clasp his hand. Each finger is my jewel.
I’m back with him again—that’s all I know.
A throne of pearl is given as my seat.
The sun, stripped of its burn, wraps me in glow.
A gleaming crescent moon supports my feet.
His marked hands are my sorrow and delight.
Those chasms are more beautiful than psalms.
Through them, I see the sky. Through them, pure light.
I’m focused on the spaces in his palms.
Sweet music swells: lutes, trumpets and guitars—
I only see his missing flesh and bone
as he holds up a diadem of stars.
A mother knows her son’s hands like her own.