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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

Let us listen while the Spouse of the holy canticles addresses us these sweet words, and endeavour to comprehend them:

"I sleep," does He say, "and my heart watches."

Ah! if He had stopped at this one word I sleep, far from tasting therein the suavity, that I seek , I should find only disquietude and alarm. Jesus Christ sleeps, and the devil, my enemy, watches and prowls around me like a lion to devour. Jesus Christ sleeps, and my senses, constantly awake, lie in ambush for my soul to enslave it. Jesus Christ sleeps, who will watch for me? My love sleeps, on whom shall I rely, My strength sleeps, who will support me? My hope sleeps, in whom shall I trust?....

But He who is, at once, my love, my hope, my strength, leaves me not long in suspense. I sleep, says He, but my heart watches; and, lo! I am at once reassured. It is no heavy slumber which leaves the heart to watch; it is not a sleep of forgetfulness when the heart keeps vigil. If His heart watches, then He will love me; if His heart watches, then He will come to my aid. His heart will always find secret words to instruct me, and secret delights to charm me; what matters it that all in Him sleeps, if His heart watches? His heart is all. Sleep, Lord Jesus, I am tranquil, Thy heart watches.

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

A Babe on the breast of his mother

Reclines in the valley of love,

And smiles like a beautiful lily

Caressed by the rays from above.

A child at the knee of his mother

Who is counting her decades of prayer,

Discovers the cross of her chaplet,

And kisses the Sufferer there.

A boy with a rosary kneeling

Alone in the temple of God,

And begging the wonderful favour

To walk where the Crucified trod.

A Student alone in his study,

With pallid and innocent face;

He raises his head from the pages

And lists to the murmur of grace.

A cleric with mortified features,

Studious, humble, and still,

In every motion a meaning,

In every action a will.

A Man at the foot of the altar -

A Christ at the foot of the cross,

Where every loss is a profit,

And every gain is a loss.

A Deified Man on a mountain,

His arms uplifted and spread -

With one he is raising the living,

with one he is loosing the dead.

Source: Rev. D. B. Collins (NewYork), from Irish Monthly (July, 1890)

Lyra Hieratica: poems on the priesthood / collected from many by Fr. Thomas Edward Bridgett,, 1829-1899.

By whose unworthy hands and trembling breath

The Victim-Priest renews His mystic death;

Whose functions bind him to thy highest care,

While conscience cries: “Presumptuous man, beware!”

O Glorious Queen, thy lamp was kindled bright

In thy Conception; yet, through all the night,

Waiting the King of kings, thy prudent toil

Trimmed and replenished it with purest oil:

My priestly lamp burns dim; oh! Pray thy Spouse

Within my sluggish spirit to arouse

The grace the priestly character demands,

Pledged by the Pontiff’s venerable hands.

Source: Lyra Hieratica: poems on the priesthood / collected from many by Fr. Thomas Edward Bridgett, 1829-1899.

Quantis micas boneribus

Good Priest, where art thou hid from human eyes

in calm Repose,

Haply to tread the marble-shining skies

after life’s woes;

Where God’s Own Presence hath His People blest,

Himself their happy Guerdon, and their rest.

Those Virtues, in whose steps thou here didst toil,

and strive to go,

Are not put off with this thy fleshly coil,

and left below;

They now are turned to rays of Light Divine,

and glorious Crowns, which on thy temples shine.

And they for whom thou toilest in second birth,

with many a sigh,

Are with thee, like thy children, fled from earth,

and through the sky

They share thy victory the blest Choirs among,

and lift with thee the new mysterious Song.

Thou here below, dim-veiled from earthly eyes

in shadows dread,

Didst offer up th’Unbloody Sacrifice,

on Christ to feed;

He now Himself, with unveiled Deity,

of Spirits Immortal the Repast shall be.

And as a daily Sacrifice may we

Be lifted up,

Bearing our daily Cross, and share with thee

Thy Master’s Cup;

We press, like shipwrecked sailors on the wave,

To Shores where Christ doth stretch His Arms

to save.

To Him, Who governs His own Priestly Host,

Himself their Crown;

To Him with Father and with Holy Ghost,

be all renown:

All praise to Him as hath been heretofore,

All praise to Him both now and evermore.

Source: Lyra Eucharistica : hymns and verses on the Holy Communion, ancient and modern ; with other poems by Shipley, Orby, 1832-1916

How lovely are thy tabernacles, O Lord God of hosts!
My soul longeth and fainteth for thy courts.
How blessed and delightful it is to immolate
the Sacred Host to thee in thy tabernacle,
 to sing and to make music to thee!

How good it is to declare thy justices,
or preach penance for the remission of sins!
How good it is to teach and baptize the nations,
to cast out devils, to cure the sick,
to increase the number of thy servants,
to sanctify and to perfect them!

Who shall give to me, 0 my God,
that I should be thus able to subject the whole world to thee,
to make every land adore thee and sing thy praises,
that all flesh might bless thy holy name and every creature serve thee?

source: An Epitome of the Priestly Life. Claure Arvisenet, Francis O'Sullivan

An humble priest, across the fields
His journey turned one day,
And where the plain to forests yields,
He saw the children play.


With yearning heart, quite nigh he drew,
And spoke in kindly tone,
Of One whose love a way well knew,
To make them all His own.


For He, though God, a child became,
All souls on earth to save;
And in rich payment for the same,
His Precious Blood He gave.


Yet when He died He left us not,
But still with us to stay
A miracle of love He wrought,
Which is renewed each day.


Within the Church sweet Jesus dwells,
And hears the children pray;
And listens to what each one tells,
And does what each may say.


Straightway from out that children-group
One hastened to the church;
And passing where the arches droop,
He entered by the porch.


Now kneeling on the altar high,
To which, by stool he rose,
The tabernacle door so nigh
He beat with gentle blows.


Then bending close the curl-robed ear,
“Good Jesus, art Thou there?”
He asked, and paused a word to hear,
But no sound broke the air.


And then again, the innocent
Tapped softly at the door,
And once again with head low bent,
He listened as before.


No answer came! “He’s fast asleep,
Dear Jesus is; and so
Beside Him very still I’ll keep:
He’ll waken soon, I know.”


Then from within a voice was heard:
“What wouldst thou, little one?”
The child by this to gladness stirred
Felt now his mission done.


“My father is not good to Thee,
And does not go to Mass.
Dear Jesus, grant this now to me:
That sin from him may pass.”


“It shall be so.” What joy to know
His father’s soul should live!
Like grace on us will richly flow
If we let Jesus give.

By Mortimer E. Twomey

Source: The Rosary Magazine, April, 1894.

pp. 953-4.