Josemaría Escrivá Obras
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There was a mother

who, like all mothers,

was passionately fond of her little child,

whom she called

her prince, her king,

her treasure, her very sun.

I thought of you.

And I understood

— for what father does not carry

deep inside some maternal feelings? —

that it was no exaggeration

for that good mother to say:

you are more than a treasure,

you are worth more than the sun itself:

you are worth all Christ’s Blood!

How can I fail to take up your soul

— pure gold —

and place it in the forge,

and fashion it with fire and hammer,

until that gold nugget is turned

into a splendid jewel

to be offered to my God,

to your God?


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