BY FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER, D.D. Oh, it is hard to work for God, To rise and take His part Upon this battlefield of earth, And not sometimes lose heart. He hides Himself so wondrously, As though there were no God; He is least seen when all the powers Of ill are most abroad. Or He deserts us at the hour The fight is all but lost; And seems to leave us to ourselves Just when we need Him most. Ill masters good; good seems to change To ill with greatest ease; And, worst of all, the good with good Is at cross-purposes. Ah! God is other than we think; His ways are far above, Far beyond reason’s height, and reached Only by child-like love. Workman of God! Oh, lose not heart, But learn what God is like; And in the darkest battle-field Thou shalt know where to strike. Thrice blessed is he to whom is given The instinct that can tell That God is on the field when He Is most invisible. Blessed too, is he who can divine Where real right doth lie, And dares to take the side that seems Wrong to man’s blindfold eye. For right is right, since God is God; And right the day must win; To doubt would be disloyalty, To falter would be sin. MATER DOLOROSA BY JOHN FITZPATRICK, O.M.I. She stands, within the shadow, at the foot Of the high tree she planted: thirty-three Full years have sped, and such has grown to be The stem that burgeoned forth from Jesse’s root. Spring swiftly passed and panted in pursuit The eager summer; now she stands to see The only fruit-time of her only tree: And all the world is waiting for the Fruit. Now is faith’s sad fruition: this one hour Of gathered expectation wears the crown Of the long grief with which the years were rife; As in her lap--a sudden autumn shower-- The earthquake with his trembling hand shakes down The red, ripe Fruitage of the Tree of Life. YULETIDE BY ALICE FURLONG In a stable bare, Lo, the great Ones are. Strew the Ivy and the Myrtle Round about the Virgin’s kirtle! Ass and oxen mild Breathe soft upon the Child! Blow the scent of bygone summer On your breath to the New-comer! Be ye well content To be straitly pent Backwards in the rocky chamber From the angel’s wings of amber! Rapt the seraphs sit, With godly faces lit In a radiance shining solely From the Christ-child, meek and holy. High they chant and clear Of the lovely cheer Ring down the new evangels Of the mystic, midnight angels. Faring with good will From the misty hill, Every shepherd sacrificeth To the prophet that ariseth. Joseph, Mary’s spouse, Prince of David’s House, Bendeth low in adorations To the Ruler of the Nations.