Twenty-one women in Hunts Point believe so strongly in the power of prayer that not even death can coax them from their seven-acre hillside monastery.
The Catholic nuns of the Dominican order pray all day, every day. And when they die, they are laid to rest in vaults beneath the sprawling Gothic cloister of the Corpus Christi Monastery at 230 Lafayette St.
"I feel my prayer is more important for the people of this community than what I could manage to do," said Sister Mary of Jesus, 48, speaking of the days when she worked as a nurse in the borough before she joined the monastery at the age of 24. "Any nurse could do what I was doing, but I'm not sure this would get done if I weren't here."
Prayer is the sole function of this contemplative monastery, which is 106 years old. These nuns rarely leave their commune; they aren't missionaries, social workers, teachers or nurses. They pray -- for peace, for an end to poverty and homelessness, and for every other conceivable good. Together or alone, in silence or in song, a moment never passes without one of the women bowing to the chapel crucifix.
There are nine contemplative monasteries in the Archdiocese of New York, but the monastic life of prayer and penance appeals to few people. Just one has joined the monasteries in the last five years, said Sister Catherine Quinn of the archdiocese. This year, three women are expected to join the Corpus Christi community.
The nuns are isolated, but not completely. "They let us watch the news so we know what to pray for," said Sister Mary of Jesus, who wore a creamy white habit, rosary beads, black veil, a thin gold band on her left hand -- the only modern touch -- brown Birkenstock sandals.
Anyone can push open the heavy red gate on Lafayette Street and enter a garden where green iris leaves poke through blankets of ivy. Children, prostitutes, homeless and elderly people often come to the door to be comforted by prayer.
Some visitors are not as benign. Two years ago, a man burst through the gate and ran at Sister Mary St. John with a knife. Aquinas -- an old brown-and-black Akita -- scared the attacker away, and no one was hurt.
After that incident and the subsequent appearance of mattresses and needles in their gardens, the monastery strung rolls of razor wire atop its stone walls. But Sister Mary St. John still tends the front garden, and the gate remains open to guests.
The community has survived times more desperate than these. Sister Mary Thomas, 93, said that when she led the monastery in the 1950s, the nuns were so poor they had to beg for food at the market.
Now beggars come to them, though the sisters have little to spare. They support themselves by baking and selling communion bread to 50 parishes worldwide and from donations sent with prayer requests.
Last week, as the nuns showed off the garden where they grow a third of their food, a gunshot rang out and sent pigeons flying. The sisters giggled at their own startled faces, and told how escapees from the adjacent juvenile detention center climbed into their garden.
One of the sisters grinned mischievously and said, "They found themselves in a prison of another kind."