Where are you gone, young son,
To Costozza’s lonely hills?
And are you called
Like so few,
Compelled by holy word
To sanctify your life?

Who knows the road
By which the Spirit leads;
Wandering here and there,
Only to stop and tarry
Without notice,
When prompted
To share your soul.

May you transcend your dread,
And blister not your heels,
For, while your work is simple,
Soul’s monstrance will try you
When spirit is most strong,
Teaching you the value of pain,
Wretched as it may be,
It is the refiner’s fire.

And so waits
Costozza’s lonely hills,
And the spirits
Of brothers gone,
Calling you, young son,
For it is they
Who hold the key.

Listen well,
And await the prevalent wind,
But shed your tether,
So that none can hold you
Save He, Him who it is
That you seek.
And travel well
Upon Costozza’s lonely hill,
For humanity waits,
And you, young son,
Will remind us of our way.