Brother Monk, Lover of the Fields

Favored land of welcome, land with open arms,
Whose seasons send us showers of all of Nature’s charms
In winter holy rain it sends, in summer glorious light,
All hymns that ring with joy, ascending every height.
The spring is full of blossom whose perfume fills the air,
Autumn comes with colors rich and fruit that’s full and fair.
Exuberance and ecstasy intoxicate our souls,
A cross, a dome or shrine every summit holds;
The valleys have their hermits to set a sacred seal
And belfries call to prayer with loud and ringing peal.
Nature and the monk are one, for holy is this land,
Doubly fertile from the toil of the cenobitic hand.
Canticles and psalms he chants in daytime and at night
Praising God so that this place is worthy in his sight.
The ringing of the distant bells the faithful calls to prayer,
To meditation, virtue, hope, to find God everywhere.
In Lebanon our daily life fills our souls with grace,
It is oration, sacrifice, and every form of praise.
Monast’ries and convents both with monks and nuns abound,
With open doors that welcome those who come from all around,
The young who come from near and far, who hear the inner call
To share with Christ the bread and wine, the wormwood and the gall.
Be not amazed, the village, too, is itself a holy place,
Blesséd by the monks’ abode which radiates its grace.
Near ancient Byblos city, a thousand meters high,
Lies like an eagle’s eyrie Lehfed village near the sky.
In almost every house you find Saint Joseph’s holy name,
Saint of the Holy Family and workman just the same
As peasant Joseph lab’ring hard the mountain soil to till,
Pruning mulberry tree and vine to bend them to his will.
With blessed hands and fingers green, the earth he made to live,
Nature nourished by his prayer did richest harvest give.
He struck the earth and water rose to irrigate the land
Abundant was the harvest grown beneath his caring hand.
Agéd trees whose sap had dried with cunning hands he made
To change to chairs and tables too on which the food was laid.
From matter dead his skill would form the things for use each day,
Objects fine that would endure and many years would stay.
A man so rare, one called to God, and to the cloister cell,
Alone with Jesus, Mary too, as on his knees he fell.
He left his village and his home when little more than child
So at Kfifane the cloister life with brothers there he’d find.
Losing self to find himself, his true self in the Lord,
By serving fellow monks who shared the common board.
They charged him with the fields, he worked there and did pray,
Fasting there in silence, thinking only to obey.
Poor and chaste, devoted, he gave himself no rest,
Saying, “God he sees me always, so I shall give my best.”
When he renounced the world, as a monk he changed his name,
He was now Brother Stephen, as his father called the same.
His brother monks he loved, yet his soul was quite alone,
He followed Christ’s example so through him Christ was known.
Just as for holy Sharbel, his end did sudden come,
His sent his soul to heaven when working in the sun.
Saint Sharbel had died earlier without an illness long
But the pious nun Saint Rafca had suffered torture strong.
Brother Stephen was no anchorite in hermitage concealed,
He was simple and warm-hearted and loved the fertile field
His life on earth was short, soon from heaven came the call.
Where he joined the throng of saints, a star among them all
Vested like the flowers that Solomon exceed,
Close he stands to Mary where his merits for us plead.
The faithful in their thousands stand before his grave,
They contemplate his virtues, the example that he gave.
He lies there as one sleeping with pure and holy face,
So the pilgrims feel the radiance of God’s saving grace.
He shows the simple life can Our Savior please,
He said, “God, he sees me always,” and now his God he sees.

French by Joseph Matar – Translation: K.J. Mortimer