On the Catholic Priesthood
The Blessed Sacrament
Jesus! my Lord, my God, my All
How can I love Thee as I ought?
And how revere this wondrous gift
So far surpassing hope or thought?
Sweet Sacrament, we Thee adore!
Oh make us love Thee more and more.
Had I but Mary's sinless heart
To love Thee with, my dearest King,
Of with what bursts of fervent praise
Thy goodness, Jesus, would I sing!
Sweet Sacrament, we Thee adore,
Oh make us love Thee more and more.
Oh, see! within a creature's hand
The vast Creator deigns to be,
Reposing infant-like, as though
On Joseph's arm or Mary's knee,
Sweet Sacrament, we Thee adore!
Of make us love Thee more and more.
Thy Body, Soul, and Godhead all!
Oh, mystery of love divine!
I cannot compass all I have;
For all Thou hast and art are mine!
Sweet Sacrament, we Thee adore!
Of make us love Thee more and more. Amen.
Posted at 12:00AM Aug 17, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
Ordinandi
Before yon earthly shrine, O dearest Lord,
Knelt two whose lives like tapers burn for Thee,
— Thy holy priests now, bearers of Thy Word,
And guardians of Thy Sacred Mystery.
Pure as the lily keep those human hearts,
And spotless as the Host those hallowed souls;
While far above the joy this world imparts,
Be theirs that peace Thy Sacred Word extols.
O make them strong and comfort them in pain,
In hour of trial sorrowing apart;
And lest their life-long sacrifice be vain,
Enclose them in Thy Sacred, Wounded Heart,
CARMENELLA.
Source: The Maine Catholic Historical Magazine, Volume 2
Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, Portland, Maine, December, 1913
Posted at 10:35AM Aug 16, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
Christ Loved the Church
Treading the Nazareth vale and mountain side,
Growing in age and grace with God and men,
Still to His parents subject; even then
Wedded was Christ's young heart to one fair Bride.
Oft for the mystic nuptial rite He sighed.
Fulfilling years and grace, He filled again
The measure of His love, nor rested when
Of love's excess upon the Cross He died.
Christ loves His Church, throughout all time His Spouse,
The all-fair Mother of an offspring born
And bound to Him in more than carnal ties.
In all things like the Master, may our vows
Of love for Mother Church both night and morn
Arise and mount unbroken to the skies!
Source: The Messenger of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, Vol. VIII Feb, 1893
Posted at 12:00AM Aug 11, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
Death of a young priest
Oh! to think of him as Priest,
One short moment at the feast
Of the King.
One short season ’mid the vine,
Where the workers prune and twine,
Weep and sing.
It is well, as priest and man
‘Twas a guileless course he ran
Who can say
What sorrow, what deep dole,
Lay in wait for the young soul
Passed away?
Fare thee well; God grant thee rest,
And thy birthright’ mid the blest
May He give:
Thou didst speak His word, and break
The Life-Bread immortals take -
Thou shalt live.
Source: Rev. Dr. Howley, Ave Maria (June 1886)
Lyra Hieratica: poems on the priesthood / collected from many by Fr. Thomas Edward Bridgett,, 1829-1899.
Posted at 12:00AM Aug 07, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
A Bed-Ridden Priesthood
Oh! it is good to stand each day,
A trembling, happy priest,
And offer up the Victim-God
And taste the heavenly feast.
But it is better yet to lie
Helpless, alone and still,
God’s victim on a bed of pain,
A martyr to His will.
To feed on Jesus is the life
Of all th’angelic host,
To suffer and to sigh for Him
No seraphim can boast.
Source: Rev. Edmund Vaughan, C.SS.R.
Lyra Hieratica: poems on the priesthood / collected from many by Fr. Thomas Edward Bridgett,, 1829-1899.
Posted at 09:30PM Jul 14, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
They Say I Do not Love Thee
They say I do not love thee,
Flag of my native land,
Whose meteor-folds above me
To the free breeze expand;
Thy broad stripes proudly streaming,
And thy stars so brightly gleaming.
They say I would forsake thee,
should some dark crisis lower;
That, recreant, I should make thee
Crouch to a foreign power;
Seduced by license ample,
On thee, blest flag, to trample.
False are the words they utter,
ungenerous their brand,
And rash the oaths they mutter,
Flag of my native land;
While still in hope, above me
Thou wavest - and I love thee.
They say that bolts of thunder,
Hurled by the Pontiff's hand,
May rive and bring thee under,
Flag of my native land,
And with one blow dissever
My heart from thee forever.
God's is my love's first duty,
To whose eternal name
Be praise for all thy beauty,
Thy grandeur, and thy fame;
But ever have I reckoned
Thine, native flag, its second.
Woe to the foe or stranger
Whose sacrilegious hand
Would touch thee or endanger,
Flag of my native land!
Though some would fain discard thee,
Mine should be raise to guard thee.
Then wave, thou first of banners,
And in thy genial shade
Let creeds, opinions, manners
In love and peace be laid;
And there, all discord ended,
Our hearts and souls be blended.
Stream on, stream on before us,
Thou labarum of light,
While in one general chorus
Our vows to thee we plight;
Unfaithful to thee? - Never!
My country's flag forever.
written by Rev. Dr. C.C. Pise, who died in 1866. Fr. Pise was the only priest to act as chaplain of the United States Senate.
Source: Our Young People Company, 1916
Posted at 12:00AM Jul 04, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
The Sleep of the Eucharist
Let us listen while the Spouse of the holy canticles addresses us these sweet words, and endeavour to comprehend them:
"I sleep," does He say, "and my heart watches."
Ah! if He had stopped at this one word I sleep, far from tasting therein the suavity, that I seek , I should find only disquietude and alarm. Jesus Christ sleeps, and the devil, my enemy, watches and prowls around me like a lion to devour. Jesus Christ sleeps, and my senses, constantly awake, lie in ambush for my soul to enslave it. Jesus Christ sleeps, who will watch for me? My love sleeps, on whom shall I rely, My strength sleeps, who will support me? My hope sleeps, in whom shall I trust?....
But He who is, at once, my love, my hope, my strength, leaves me not long in suspense. I sleep, says He, but my heart watches; and, lo! I am at once reassured. It is no heavy slumber which leaves the heart to watch; it is not a sleep of forgetfulness when the heart keeps vigil. If His heart watches, then He will love me; if His heart watches, then He will come to my aid. His heart will always find secret words to instruct me, and secret delights to charm me; what matters it that all in Him sleeps, if His heart watches? His heart is all. Sleep, Lord Jesus, I am tranquil, Thy heart watches.
Posted at 12:00AM Jun 29, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
The Priest and the Altar
Enough the blood of victims flowed of old,
The shadows pass, and legal offerings;
Now higher Ministries, Thou, Lord, dost mold,
On which a holier shade Thy Priesthood flings.
Elias from the Heavens called down the flame;
One Greater than Elias, hid from sight,
Is here, obedient to His awful Name;
Of Him we make the dread memorial Rite.
Great Office, the mysterious Cup to bear,
In which the guilty world’s Salvation lies,
And with our trembling hands, full of deep fear,
To offer up the Bloodless Sacrifice.
Oh, more than all to ancient Prophets given,
More than to Angels, if but understood,
That in our trembling hands the God of Heaven
Doth give Himself to be our Spirits’ Food.
Grant, Christ, that we, fulfilling Thy Commands,
Of Thy blest Presence may approach the Seat,
With hearts by Thee made pure, and holy hands;
May love for Thy dread Altars make us meet.
Son of th’Eternal Father, God above,
May all the world beneath Thy Feet adore,
Who sendest down the Spirit, with Thy Love
Thy Priesthood to anoint for evermore.
Source: Lyra Eucharistica : hymns and verses on the Holy Communion, ancient and modern ; with other poems by Shipley, Orby, 1832-1916
Posted at 12:00AM Jun 18, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
The First Mass
(Image Source: GoogleBooks)
Before the altar stands the vested priest,
His face illumined with the spirit's light,
Though conscious, awed by his exalted right
To offer sacrifice.
From sin released through prayer and fast,
His strength by grace increased,
He pours the Wine of love into the chalice bright,
Lifts from the paten Life's Bread pure and white,
Invokes the Presence for the Sacred Feast,
Adores the Lamb of Whom the Saints are fed.
The heavens part, rejoicing Angels see
Uplifted eyes, anointed hands outspread
O'er silent worshippers, while fervently
A blessing falls with peace upon each head.
O miracle sublime! O mystery.
Source: by Rev. R.S. Dewey, S.J. The Messenger of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. July, 1891
Posted at 12:00AM Jun 09, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
Priestly Vocation
A Babe on the breast of his mother
Reclines in the valley of love,
And smiles like a beautiful lily
Caressed by the rays from above.
A child at the knee of his mother
Who is counting her decades of prayer,
Discovers the cross of her chaplet,
And kisses the Sufferer there.
A boy with a rosary kneeling
Alone in the temple of God,
And begging the wonderful favour
To walk where the Crucified trod.
A Student alone in his study,
With pallid and innocent face;
He raises his head from the pages
And lists to the murmur of grace.
A cleric with mortified features,
Studious, humble, and still,
In every motion a meaning,
In every action a will.
A Man at the foot of the altar -
A Christ at the foot of the cross,
Where every loss is a profit,
And every gain is a loss.
A Deified Man on a mountain,
His arms uplifted and spread -
With one he is raising the living,
with one he is loosing the dead.
Source: Rev. D. B. Collins (NewYork), from Irish Monthly (July, 1890)
Lyra Hieratica: poems on the priesthood / collected from many by Fr. Thomas Edward Bridgett,, 1829-1899.
Posted at 11:59AM Jun 04, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [1]
A Priest’s Prayer to Our Lady
By whose unworthy hands and trembling breath
The Victim-Priest renews His mystic death;
Whose functions bind him to thy highest care,
While conscience cries: “Presumptuous man, beware!”
O Glorious Queen, thy lamp was kindled bright
In thy Conception; yet, through all the night,
Waiting the King of kings, thy prudent toil
Trimmed and replenished it with purest oil:
My priestly lamp burns dim; oh! Pray thy Spouse
Within my sluggish spirit to arouse
The grace the priestly character demands,
Pledged by the Pontiff’s venerable hands.
Source: Lyra Hieratica: poems on the priesthood / collected from many by Fr. Thomas Edward Bridgett, 1829-1899.
Posted at 10:27AM May 21, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
Commemoration of a Faithful Priest
Quantis micas boneribus
Good Priest, where art thou hid from human eyes
in calm Repose,
Haply to tread the marble-shining skies
after life’s woes;
Where God’s Own Presence hath His People blest,
Himself their happy Guerdon, and their rest.
Those Virtues, in whose steps thou here didst toil,
and strive to go,
Are not put off with this thy fleshly coil,
and left below;
They now are turned to rays of Light Divine,
and glorious Crowns, which on thy temples shine.
And they for whom thou toilest in second birth,
with many a sigh,
Are with thee, like thy children, fled from earth,
and through the sky
They share thy victory the blest Choirs among,
and lift with thee the new mysterious Song.
Thou here below, dim-veiled from earthly eyes
in shadows dread,
Didst offer up th’Unbloody Sacrifice,
on Christ to feed;
He now Himself, with unveiled Deity,
of Spirits Immortal the Repast shall be.
And as a daily Sacrifice may we
Be lifted up,
Bearing our daily Cross, and share with thee
Thy Master’s Cup;
We press, like shipwrecked sailors on the wave,
To Shores where Christ doth stretch His Arms
to save.
To Him, Who governs His own Priestly Host,
Himself their Crown;
To Him with Father and with Holy Ghost,
be all renown:
All praise to Him as hath been heretofore,
All praise to Him both now and evermore.
Source: Lyra Eucharistica : hymns and verses on the Holy Communion, ancient and modern ; with other poems by Shipley, Orby, 1832-1916
Posted at 12:24PM May 13, 2019 by VP in Poetry | Comments [0]
Day 48 - April 21 - Easter Sunday - Annual Confessions
If Easter were prolonged to Pentecost, you would not go to Confession until Pentecost, or if the latter did not come around for ten years, you would go to Confession only every ten years. Indeed, if the Church did not give you a commandment about it, you would not go to Confession until death. What do you think of that, my dear brethren? Does it not mean that you have neither regret for having offended God, Who requires you to go to Confession, nor love for God, Who requires you to make your Easter Communion? Ah you will say to me, that's all very well. We do not make our Easter duty without knowing why.
Ah! You know nothing at all about it! You do it from habit, to be able to say you have made your Easter duty, or, if you would prefer to speak the truth, you would say that you have added a new sin to your old ones. It is not, therefore, either love of God or regret for having offended Him which makes you go to Confession or make your Easter duty, or even the desire to lead a more Christian life. And here is the proof of it: if you loved God, would you consent to commit sin with such ease, and even with so much enjoyment? If you had a horror of sin, as you should have, would you be able to keep it for a whole year on your conscience? If you had a real desire to live a more Christian life, would we not see at least some little change in your way of living?
No, my dear brethren, I do not wish to talk to you today about those unfortunate people who tell only half their sins through fear of not making their Easter duty or of being refused Absolution – perhaps even for the sake of covering up their shameful lives with the veil of virtue and who, in this state, approach the altar and are going to complete their dreadful work by handing over their God to the Devil and precipitating their sacrilegious souls into Hell.
No, I dare to hope that this does not concern you, but I will continue, nevertheless, to tell you that going to Confession only once a year is not something about which you should feel any peace or satisfaction.