This is an excerpt from God at the heart of our lives. I make the comment that there is minimal punctuation in the French, but that it has been added in translation.
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Brother,
Tell me what art surpasses all others,
That goes beyond words, beyond music,
That renders the body lighter than dance,
That dwells in silence more fully than poetry.
Tell me, my brother, what is this art
Which touches the heart of God?
An art
We can exercise till our final breath,
On a hospital bed, in an underground cell,
An art whose studio is the human heart;
An art that draws in the great and the small,
Learned doctors and illiterate alike.
I have seen it practiced by the rich in their mansions
And by beggars huddled beside the pavement.
But tell me also why at times it is —
More arid that the desert,
Darker than night,
Harsher than combat,
Heavier than lead,
Emptier than the void,
But always, always pulls us back again,
Hungry as it is for the best of ourselves.
Brother,
What is then this art
Which brings courage to the most discouraged,
Hope to the most despairing,
Which enlightens human darkness,
Which bears the heaviest faults
And causes our words to dance with the greatest joy,
That better than any tear expresses sorrow
And better than laughter, our mirth?
What again is this art
Which teaches us to see with the eyes of God,
Which makes love more lovely still,
Which makes compassion deeper, more true,
Which uncovers the beauty of silence,
Which makes us present to the present
Without fleeing into past or future,
Which is never apart from God, for God is its Father,
As he is its goal, its heart, its secret?
This art,
In which you have exerted yourself so often,
Which has seen you often discouraged,
This art which has procured you so many joys,
As you know no doubt much better than me;
This art, my brother, is prayer.
Love it therefore like a son of your flesh.
Brother, pursue your art: it is the life of your life.
But prayer is much more than an art.
It is . . . my heart sings . . .
It is a meeting,
It is a stammering in the Father’s embrace,
At times a bedazzlement,
A sudden intoxication, a sweet wound;
It is what God makes it, for he is its master.
Blessed is the day when your prayer explodes
Into more than a song, a murmur, a silence . . .
But you know it — God has taught you,
So keep watch over your silence, my brother, and pray.