Pádraig, Take Us Back...

Pádraig, take us back...
to the windswept cliffs of recklessness. To the wet cold Wind that strips the soul bare. To the edge of the Sea. 
Pádraig, take us back...
to barren fields of rock, beneath pregnant skies, away from noise and haste. Through the mists of our indifference and triviality, from the warmth of our security.... to the wet cold hollows of the heart where still the Wind blows. Where the Wind scrapes clean mind and heart.
Pádraig, take us back... to where you found yourself, wandering fields of green, under witch-black skies, tending sheep, whistling the pipe, wrapped in prayer, vulnerable. Through howling nights, through the jigs and reels of Faerie, of Mystery, of Deep Uncertainty. 
For we are lost in our certainty. 
We are cold in our comfortability. 
We are trembling in our security. 
Holy Boy, return us to our native pete; to the soil that sweats blood, that holy sod, that rich black earth from which we, scraped, shaped, and filled with the Wind of God, were made... all of us. And will return, all of us. 
Pádraig, take us back... 
we fragile pots of clay, to the Hands that shaped the stars, and brushed the heather soft, and gave the gulls their cry, and poured water on the earth, and Who alone can fill us.
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