Wednesday, September 17, 2014


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.

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