Ash Wednesday

by
Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

My God, my God, have mercy on my sin,
For it is great; and if I should begin
To tell it all, the day would be too small
To tell it in.

My God, Thou wilt have mercy on my sin
For Thy Love's sake: yea, if I should begin
To tell This all, the day would be too small
To tell it in.

I See His Blood Upon The Rose

by
Joseph Mary Plunkett

I see His blood upon the rose
and in the stars the glory of His eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see His face in every flower;
the thunder and the singing of the birds
are but His voice - and carven by His power;
rocks are His written words.

All pathways by His feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

Absolution

by
Siegfried Sassoon

The anguish of the earth absolves our eyes
till beauty shines in all that we can see.
War is our scourge; yet war has made us wise,
and, fighting for our freedom, we are free.

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe,
and loss of things desired; all these must pass.
We are the happy legion, for we know
time's but a golden wind that shakes the grass.

There was an hour when we were loth to part
from life we longed to share no less than others.
Now, having claimed this heritage of heart,
what need we more, my comrades and my brothers?

Citizen of the World

by
Joyce Kilmer

No longer of Him be it said
"He hath no place to lay His head."

In every land a constant lamp
Flames by His small and mighty camp.

There is no strange and distant place
That is not gladdened by His face.

And every nation kneels to hail
The Splendour shining through Its veil.

Cloistered beside the shouting street,
Silent, He calls me to His feet.

Imprisoned for His love of me
He makes my spirit greatly free.

And through my lips that uttered sin
The King of Glory enters in.

Initiation

by
Joseph Mary Plunkett

Our lips can only stammer, yet we chant
   high things of God. We do not hope to praise
   the splendour and the glory of His ways
but we will follow thee, his hierophant
   filling with secret canticles the days
   to shadow forth in symbols for their gaze
what crowns and thrones await His militant.

For all His beauty showered on the earth
   is summed in thee, O thou most perfect flower;
   His dew has filled thy chalice, and His power
blows forth the fragrance of thy mystic worth:

   White blossom of His Tree, behold the hour!
Fear not! Thy fruit is Love's most lovely birth.

The Rosary

by
Joyce Kilmer

Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings
   Shall all men praise the Master of all song.
   Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long;
And skilled must be the laureates of kings.
Silent, O lips that utter foolish things!
   Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong!
   How from your toil shall issue, white and strong,
Music like that God's chosen poet sings?

There is one harp that any hand can play,
   And from its strings what harmonies arise!
There is one song that any mouth can say, -
   A song that lingers when all singing dies.
When on their beads our Mother's children pray
   Immortal music charms the grateful skies.