CAPG's Blog 

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

"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.

"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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

 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.

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