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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

O Face Divine!

O Face most sorrowful yet so benign!

So beauteous still in grief, towards me incline!

O Sacred Eyes!

On which the weight of dreaded anguish lies,

That look must break the heart which Christ denies.

O Lips so meek!

Unless their all absolving word I seek,

Those lips one day eternal doom will speak.

O Sacred Face!

Which mortal hand has dared with prayer to trace,

Thee on my heart with throbs of awe I place.

O Face Divine!

Give me of love returned some blissful sign;

O Face Divine, in grief towards me incline.

Source: Sister Saint-Pierre and the Work of Reparation, Rev. P. Janvier

The principal object of the devotion to the Holy Face is to offer respectful love and homage to the Adorable Face of Jesus disfigured in the Passion; to make reparation for blasphemy and the neglect of Holy Days, which outrages Him afresh; and, lastly, to obtain of God the conversion of sinners and profaners of the Holy Day,

I salute, adore, and love Thee, O Jesus, my Savior, covered anew with outrages by blasphemers, and I offer Thee, through the heart of Thy blessed Mother, the worship of all the Angels and Saints, as an incense and a perfume of sweet odor, most humbly beseeching Thee, by the virtue of Thy Sacred Face, to repair and renew in me and in all men Thy image disfigured by sin. Amen

Source: Veronica, or the Holy Face of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1871

Source: Sister Saint-Pierre and the work of Reparation, Rev. Janvier 1885

Source: Veronica or the Holy Face of Our Lord Jesus Christ, 1871

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

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. 

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.