The Intercessions

We now ride into Mary’s fragile heart,

with eyes of worship, we adore the cusp:

clash of holiness with rash mercy mild,

we will ride, racing the Nile, holy nard.

The Intercessions, W.E. Isaacson

About the Book

In The Intercessions, Winter gathers prayers from the ashes of Notre Dame and binds them into sonnets that stand as vigil candles against the dark. This sacred cycle weaves ruin with hope, memory with mercy, and grief with the quiet resolve to rebuild what fire could not consume. Rooted in history yet alive with devotion, these poems speak as priest and pilgrim, guiding the reader through lament into a gentle resurrection of faith.

Here is a book for all who stand among ruins — personal or collective — and dare to believe that prayer is stronger than flame. From riverbanks and relics to the final whispered hymn, The Intercessions calls us to kneel in the ashes and rise singing, a chorus of watchmen keeping vigil for the dawn.

Coming Soon . . .

Intercession Thirteen.

O thorn, O pitied thorn of his dying—

budding, blooming in winter, wreath bled.

O holy cross, O instrument of death—

olive tree with oil coursing, falling

down. O mortification of the flesh,

that I may be bound to you; and my sin,

bound to the sacred smooth skull and head pierced

by field circle of thorns, that crown of death.

Once a babe, you are lifted up on high

and we will in worship, now lift you high.

You were crucified for the help of me;

your blood is rivers of myrrh, drops of thyme,

bore our iniquity in this dark time.

Our fingers intertwine with your gold leaves.

W.E. Isaacson