The CAPG's Blog

Lines on a Deceased Priest

Breathe not his honored name,

Silently keep it.

Hushed be the saddening theme,

In secrecy weep it.

Call not a warmer flow

To eyes that are aching:

Wake not a deeper throe

In hearts that are breaking.

Oh! “tis a placid rest;

Who could deplore it?

Trance of the pure and blest,

Angels watch o’er it!

Sleep of his mortal night,

Sorrow can’t break it;

Heaven’s own morning light

Alone shall awake it.

Noble thy course is run;

Splendour is round it.

Bravely thy fight is won,

Freedom hath crowned it

In the high warfare

Of heaven grown hoary,

Thou art gone like the summer sun,

Shrouded in glory.

Twine, twine the victor’s wreath,

Spirits that meet him!

Sweet songs of triumph breather,

Seraphs that greet him!

From his high resting-place

Who shall him sever?

With his God, face to face,

Leave him forever.

Callanan. Messenger of the Sacred Heart 1891

Posted at 09:45AM Jun 29, 2020 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

Rome

We read in last Sunday's Gospel, (the Octave of the Epiphany), that at the age of twelve our Lord remained in the temple disputing with the doctors, and when found by Mary and Joseph, who had been sorrowfully seeking Him, He replied:" Nesciebatis quia in his quoe Patris mei sunt, oportet me esse." (St. Luke ii. 49)

Well, we also are, or ought to be, about our Father's business, the saving of the souls of our brethren. This alone is our mission. For ourselves especially, we must strive to convert the poor of St. Galla and in the country districts. This is what God asks of each one of us.

How have we responded to the call? To take one thing only, how have we taught the catechism? Parvuli petierunt panem et non erat qui frangeret eis. We go and preach in public places, but with what ardor? Are we not glad of the smallest excuse to escape it? The souls of our neighbors are in our hands, and yet how many are lost through our fault? The sick die without being properly prepared, for we have not given time or care enough to each particular case. We are easily rebuffed, and ready enough to leave them, and say to ourselves: "Well, after all, it's their own fault if they won't listen to us." Yet, with a little more patience, a little more perseverance, a little more love, in fact, we could have led those poor souls to heaven. Many among us shrink from going to the hospitals, either on account of fear of infection, or from the sights and smells that await us there. Courage!

We are not come into the world to follow our own will and pleasure, but to imitate our Lord. "No quoero voluntatem mean, sed voluntatem ejus qui mist me." (St. John v. 36) If we experience some repugnance in our work, either from its nature, or from the unwillingness of the poor to listen to us, let us think of the example of St. Francis of Sales, who shrunk from no labor, no fatigue, and was rewarded by the conversion of seventy thousand heretics, and when reproached for having shortened his life by these means, replied, " It is nor necessary that I should live, but it is necessary that souls should be saved." This should be our motto. Let us, then, learn greater perseverance in good works; do not let us get tepid and hopeless when unexpected difficulties arise, but let us strive courageously to surmount them, being thoroughly persuaded that such is the will of God.

Again, let us ask ourselves, " How did the saints act in similar circumstances?" Look at ST. Philip Neri and St. Igantius. The first was sent for to assist a lady on her death bed. Her husband imagined, in his blind fury, that she would be persuaded to make a will in the saint's favor, and maddened by cupidity, declared that if the holy man came near the house he would kill him. St. Philip, nothing daunted, went to the lady, and administered to her all the last sacraments, and by thereby fulfilling simply what he felt was the will of God escaped all injury.

In the time of St. Ignatius, a certain convent had become a subject of public scandal, from the freedom given in the parlor, where all the smartest young men of the city went to see the nuns. St. Ignatius, with enormous difficulty, induced these faithless religious to return to their duties and banish their visitors in spite of the menaces of the young men, who, finding that St. Ignatius was determined to carry out his purpose, waylaid him one night and beat him till he was nearly dead. Nevertheless, the Saint persevered because he felt he was thereby doing the will of God.

Such examples should stimulate our zeal and our constancy. But we need only imitate certain pious laics of our acquaintance, both men and women, who show themselves real apostles of charity, nursing the sick, assisting them in their last hours, hastening to procure good confessors for them, and the like. Shall we be outdone by these voluntary laborers? I do not say  that there must not be prudence in our actions; and that unwise zeal sometimes does much harm; but who does not feel his heart burn with the fire of charity for the many suffering, abandoned souls in this sad world? We fancy that we have this love, but how do we prove it?  To believe is not enough; we must test it by our actions, prove it by our deeds, toil for them in the sweat of our brow. Without this, how can we declare we have real charity?

Rome is full of ignorance and blindness of heart. Grievous sins are committed constantly in this city; its inhabitants will not listen to those who strive to put Christian thoughts into their minds. They only hearken to worldly advice, and turn a deaf ear to all that comes from God. In so great a peril, who is to be found who will really devote himself to find a remedy? Alas! Charity in our day has waxed cold.

Posted at 07:21AM May 23, 2020 by VP in Poetry  |  Comments [0]

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]