flows from a rock called
The Source at Mont Sainte Odile
It is, so the story goes, the sacred place
where the saint before being sainted
touched a dry stone with her hand
drew forth the water that gave
a blind man back his sight
They still come
to The Source for healing
Not only the blind & the lame
but the arrogant & the unbelieving
Here they bathe their aching eyes
their distressed hearts Fill their
sundry bottles from the spring
in hope She will heal them
I too taste the spring
[Sweet water for a small faith]
Bathe my sore eyes & mop my brow
Turning, is not the world now brighter?
And is not my weariness also lighter?
For the others Sainte Odile is magic!
For me She is more of a mystery
God’s hand in a silken glove