Month of the Seven Dolors, The School of Sorrow.
by VP
Posted on Friday September 04, 2020 at 12:11PM in Poetry
I sat in the school of sorrow, The Master was teaching there; But my eyes were dim with weeping, And my heart was full of care. Instead of looking upward, And seeing His face Divine So full of the tenderest pity For weary hearts like mine. I only thought of the burdens, The cross that before me lay, So hard and heavy to carry That it darkened the light of day. So, I could not learn my lesson, And say, Thy will be done; And the Master came not near me As the weary hours went on. At last in my weary sorrow, I looked from the cross above, And I saw the Master watching With a glance of tender love. He turned to the cross before me, And I thought I heard Him say: "My child, thou must bear thy burden And learn thy task to-day. I may not tell the reason, ' Tis enough for thee to know That I, the Master, am teaching, And give this cup of woe." So I stooped to that weary sorrow; One look at that face Divine Had given me power to trust Him, And say, " Thy will, not mine." And thus I learnt my lesson, Taught by the Master alone; He only knows the tears I shed, But He has wept His own. And from them comes a brightness Straight from the Home above, Where the School Life will be ended, And the cross will show the love.
Lines on a Deceased Priest
by VP
Posted on Wednesday September 02, 2020 at 12:45AM in Poetry
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.
Source: Messenger of the Sacred Heart, 1891.
