In the old mission church,
We, faithful pilgrims, are
Packed together tightly
Much like votive candles,
Our weary wicks waiting
To be lit by Our Lady,
With the fire of the Spirit;
It wasn’t the real tilma,
Yet the good God has
No limits whatsoever, so
After mass, I approached,
Not expecting anything —
But when I touched her,
Love’s flame filled me,
And the Divine Mercy
Warmly embraced me.