And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel. Seed of the corn was thine-- Body of Him thus broken And mingled with blood of the vine-- The bread and the wine of life. Out of the good sunshine They were given to thee as a token-- The body of Him, and the blood of Him, When the gifts of God were rife. What then wert thou, and what art now? After the weary strife? And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel the Archangel. Where are they now, O bells? Where are the fruits of the Mission? Garnered, where no one dwells, Shepherd and flock are fled. O’er the Lord’s vineyard swells The tide that with fell perdition Sounded their doom and fashioned their tomb And buried them with the dead. What then wert thou, and what art now? The answer is still unsaid. And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel. Where are they now, O tower! The locusts and wild honey? Where is the sacred dower That the bride of Christ was given? Gone to the wielders of power, The misers and minters of money; Gone for the greed that is their creed-- And these in the land have thriven. What then wert thou, and what art now, And wherefore hast thou striven? And every note of every bell Sang Gabriel! rang Gabriel! In the tower that is left the tale to tell Of Gabriel, the Archangel. THE POOR BY SPEER STRAHAN, C.S.C. The poor I saw at the cloister gate Mutely beg with their patient eyes An alms, for the love of Him who sate And supped with the poor in human guise. And there were monks saw the nails’ deep scars In the shrunken hands that reached for bread, Who heard a Voice from beyond the stars In the broken thanks of them they fed. I, too, at the gates of God each day Seek for an alms of strength and grace, Beggar am I that wait and pray To feast my soul on His beauteous Face. THE PROMISED COUNTRY BY SPEER STRAHAN, C.S.C. Fair must that promised country be Whose streams rise from eternity And One doth lead upon that way Whose footfalls are the paths of day. Nor lurking fear pursues them there, As forward in the morning air With Him the blessed ransomed go, Their garments washen white as snow. Alas! my days are very dim That look up to the Seraphim. Ah, Lord, some dawning may I be One of that shining company! HOLY COMMUNION BY SPEER STRAHAN, C.S.C.