There is a wall of flesh before the eyes Of John, who yet perceives and hails his King. It is Our Lady’s painful bliss to bring Before mankind the Glory of the skies. Her cousin feels her womb’s sweet burden rise And leap with joy, and she comes forth to sing, With trembling mouth, her words of welcoming. She knows her hidden God, and prophesies. Saint John, pray for us, weary souls that tarry Where life is withered by sin’s deadly breath. Pray for us, whom the dogs of Satan harry, Saint John, Saint Anne, and Saint Elizabeth. And, Mother Mary, give us Christ to carry Within our hearts, that we may conquer death. MULTIPLICATION (For S. M. E.) I take my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well; I look my last upon His small and radiant prison-cell; O happy lamp! to serve Him with never ceasing light! O happy flame! to tremble forever in His sight! I leave the holy quiet for the loudly human train, And my heart that He has breathed upon is filled with lonely pain. O King, O Friend, O Lover! What sorer grief can be In all the reddest depths of Hell than banishment from Thee? But from my window as I speed across the sleeping land I see the towns and villages wherein His houses stand. Above the roofs I see a cross outlined against the night, And I know that there my Lover dwells in His sacramental might. Dominions kneel before Him, and Powers kiss His feet, Yet for me He keeps His weary watch in the turmoil of the street: The King of Kings awaits me, wherever I may go, O who am I that He should deign to love and serve me so? THANKSGIVING (For John Bunker) The roar of the world is in my ears. Thank God for the roar of the world! Thank God for the mighty tide of fears Against me always hurled! Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife, And the sting of His chastening rod! Thank God for the stress and the pain of life, And Oh, thank God for God! THE THORN (For the Rev. Charles L. O’Donnell, C.S.C.) The garden of God is a radiant place, And every flower has a holy face: Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod, But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rose-bush of God. David is the song upon God’s lips, And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips: And Gabriel’s the breath of His command, But Saint Michael is the sword in God’s right hand. The Ivory Tower is fair to see, And may her walls encompass me! But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might, Saint Michael, show me how to fight! THE BIG TOP The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering to my heart And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay. I take off my hat to the acrobat with his delicate, strong art, And the motley mirth of the chalk-faced clown drives all my care away.