The CAPG's Blog

The Priest

There are honors high and worthy,
That the world may prize to see,
There are kings before whose scepter,
Proudlings bend their will and knee;
There is power to chain the captives,
or to bid them go released,
But there's one with higher honor,
and with power divine - the priest.

There are hands whose deeds of valor,
or whose works of skill so grand,
Have the world's applaudits challenged,
Meed of praise they could command,
But the works of God's anointed
Higher stand - yes, e'en the least;
He can free sin's helpless captives,
Satan's chains breaks he - the priest.

There are voices at whose summons
Men arise and men obey,
There are voices to whose power,
To Whose charms men homage pay.
But there is a voice whose power
Brings the King from Heaven's feast
To repose upon our altars,
'Tis the voice of him - the priest.

There are years with merit laden,
Years that sweetest joys afford -
They are years of faithful service
In the vineyard of the Lord
Honor highest, power greatest,
Souls absolved, from sin released,
Hands that hold the God of heaven,
Yes, all these can claim - the priest.

Source: Our Young People 1916

Posted at 12:00AM Feb 13, 2020 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

A Prayer for the New Year

The Lord Preserve thy going out;
The Lord preserve thy coming in;
His angels guard thee round about
To keep thy soul from every sin;
And when thy going out is done;
And when thy coming in is o'er;
When in the dear and hallowed place
Thy feet can come and go no more,
The Lord preserve thy going out
From this fair world, from friends,and kin,
While angels standing round about Sing,
God preserve thy coming in.

Source: Young People, 1916

Posted at 12:00AM Jan 01, 2020 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

O Love of the Sacred Heart

Posted at 10:52AM Dec 27, 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 Dec 22, 2019 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

Church Postures

Ye would not sit at ease while meek men kneel
Did ye but see His face shine though the veil,
And the unearthly forms that round you steal,
Hidden in beauteous light, splendent or pale
As the rich Service leads. And prostrate faith
Shroudeth her timorous eye, while through the air
Hovers and hands the Spirit's cleansing Breath
In Whitsun shapes o'er each true worshiper.
Deep wreaths of Angels, burning from the East,
Around the consecrated Shrine are braced,
The awful Stone where by fit hands are placed
The Flesh and Blood of the tremendous Feast.
But kneel - the priest upon the Altar-stair
Will bring a blessing out of Sion there.

Source: Poems by Fr. Frederick W. Faber

Posted at 12:00AM Oct 23, 2019 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

The Papacy

That such a Power should live and breather, doth seem
A thought from which men fain would be relieved,
A grandeur not to be endured, a dream
Darkening the souls, though it be unbelieved.
August conception! far above king, law,
Or popular right; how calmly doth thou draw
Under thine awful shadow mortal pain,
And joy not mortal! Witness of a need
Deep laid in man, and therefore pierced in vain,
As though thou wert no form that thou shouldst bleed!
While such a power there lives in old man's shape,
Such and so dread, should not his mighty will
And supernatural presence, godlike fill
The air we breathe, and leave us no escape?

Source: Poems by Fr. Frederick W. Faber

Posted at 12:00AM Oct 22, 2019 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

The Church

Who is she that stands triumphant,
Rock in strength, upon the Rock,
Like some city crowned with turrets,
Braving storm and earthquake shock?
Who is she her arms extending
In blessing o'er a world restored;
All the anthems of creation
Lifting to creation's Lord?

Hers the kingdom, hers the scepter,
Kneel, ye nations, at her feet;
Hers that Truth whose fruit is Freedom;
Light her yoke; her burthen sweet!

As the moon that takes its splendor
From a sun unseen all night,
So from Christ, the Sun of Justice,
Evermore she draws her light.
Hers alone the hands of healing,
The Bread of Life, th'absolving Key;
The Word Incarnate is her Bridegroom,
The Spirit hers, His temple, she.

Hers the kingdom, hers the scepter,
Kneel, ye nations, at her feet;
Hers that Truth whose fruits is Freedom;
Light her yoke; her burthen sweet!

Empires rise and sink like billows;
Their place knoweth them no more:
Glorious as the star of morning
She o'erlooks the wild uproar.
Hers the household all embracing"
Hers the Vine that shadows earth:
Blest thy children, mighty mother,
Safe the stranger at thy hearth;

Hers the kingdom, hers the scepter,
Kneel, ye nations, at her feet;
Hers that Truth whose fruit is Freedom;
Light her yoke; her burthen sweet.

Source: The Holy Family Manual,Sisters of Notre Dame, Ohio 1883

Posted at 12:00AM Oct 19, 2019 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

The Priest

"And the people were waiting for Zachary." St. Luke, i. 21.

As morning breaks or evening shadows steal,
Duties and thoughts throng round the marble stair,
Waiting for Him who burneth incense there,
Till He shall send to bless them as they kneel.
Greater than Aaron is the mighty Priest
Who in that radiant shrine for ever dwells,
Brighter the stones that stud His glowing vest,
And ravishing the music of His bells,
That tinkle as He moves. The golden air
Is filled with motes of joy that dance and run
Through every court, and make the temple one.
-The lamps are lit; 'tis past the hour of prayer,
And through the windows is there lustre thrown,
Deep in the Holy Place the Priest doth watch alone.

Source: Poems by Fr Frederick W. Faber.

Posted at 12:00AM Oct 12, 2019 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

The Temple

"Know you not that your members are the Temple of the Holy Ghost?" I Cor. vi. 19

Come, I have found a Temple where to dwell;
Sealed up and watched by Spirits day and night
Behind the Veil there is a crystal Well.
The glorious cedar pillars sparkle bright,
All gemmed with big and glistening drops of dew,
That work their way from out yon hidden flood
By mystic virtue through the fragrant wood,
Making it shed a faint unearthly smell.
And from beneath the curtain, that doth lie
In rich and glossy folds of various hue,
Soft showers of pearly light run streamingly
Over the chequered floor and pavement blue.
Oh! that our eyes might see that Font of Grace,
But none hath entered yet his own heart's Holy Place.

Source: Poems, Fr. Frederick W. Faber

Posted at 12:00AM Oct 11, 2019 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

Hymn of St. Francis Xavier

My God, I love Thee, not because
I hope for Heaven thereby;
Nor because they who love Thee not,
Must burn eternally.

Thou, O my Jesus, Thou didst me
Upon the Cross embrace;
For me didst bear the nails and spear,
And manifold disgrace;

And griefs and torments numberless,
And sweat of agony;
E'en death itself - and all for one
Who was Thine enemy.

Then why, O blessed Jesus Christ!
Should I not love Thee well?
Not for the sake of winning Heaven;
or of escaping Hell;

Not with the hope of gaining aught,
Nor seeking a reward;
But, as Thyself hast loved me,
O ever-loving Lord!

E'en so I love Thee, and will love,
And in Thy praise will sing;
Solely because Thou art my God,
And my eternal King.

Source: Beautiful Pearls of Catholic Truth, 1897

Posted at 04:00PM Sep 17, 2019 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

In the Chapel

In vain the torch of glimmering flame
Touches you taper's cold unyielding white;
Yet why so feeble? Why so loth to light?
All around thee stand ablaze. Art not the same?

Nor soul, nor taper ventureth to reply,—
"The smoking flax, this dull, reluctant spark,
Enkindle, Lord." Quick answering through the dark,
The taper glows, the soul uplifts its cry.
O parable of Peace from One on high
That poor reluctant candle, Lord, am I.

Posted at 12:00AM Aug 19, 2019 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

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 18, 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]