Only love can heal the soul; remedy

most joyful! Bitter to the taste at first

perhaps, the wounds being cleansed, anointed, nursed.

But soon a happy, wholesome chemistry.

From the Self of God comes love in quanta,

packs of light and warmth, infinitely quick

eagerly arrive before they start, they fix;

penetrate the thickest wall, undaunted.

Every created thing receives the light

Even black holes greedily consume it

Each morning sure she comes; we assume it

At her breast all suck, all play and all delight.

And so with love, stored up or poured out free.

The proof of love: God hanging on a tree.