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7
OF THE ALTAR
1
INVENI QUEM DILIGIT ANIMA MEA
What do I see?
The semblance of a little wheaten cake
Stampt with the image of Him Who for my sake
Died on His Passion-tree.
That wheat was grown in the eternal field,
And threshed with love's own flail, and heavily ground
Between the stones of life and death, and found
In perfectness, that I might see revealed
My Lover and my God;
Him from Whose eyes
There dropt the sorrow-drops all humanwise;
Him at Whose nod
The everlasting hills would quake and flee.
This do I see.
The semblance of a little wheaten cake
Stampt with the image of Him Who for my sake
Died on His Passion-tree.
That wheat was grown in the eternal field,
And threshed with love's own flail, and heavily ground
Between the stones of life and death, and found
In perfectness, that I might see revealed
My Lover and my God;
Him from Whose eyes
There dropt the sorrow-drops all humanwise;
Him at Whose nod
The everlasting hills would quake and flee.
This do I see.
8
What do I see?
The chalice seeming of the grapes' red juice,
With water mingled, as for daily use.
O Love and Lord of me,
That juice is of the blood-red grapes that grew
Upon the living Vine Whose fruitage knew
The ripening of the everlasting Sun
Whose course was ne'er begun.
The chalice seeming of the grapes' red juice,
With water mingled, as for daily use.
O Love and Lord of me,
That juice is of the blood-red grapes that grew
Upon the living Vine Whose fruitage knew
The ripening of the everlasting Sun
Whose course was ne'er begun.
O Lover mine, O King,
What is indeed this thing,
This high, love-dreadful thing?
Thy Life, Thy Death, Thy Resurrection, all
The glory of Thine Ascension festival
In these few minutes' space
Passing before my face.
What is indeed this thing,
This high, love-dreadful thing?
Thy Life, Thy Death, Thy Resurrection, all
The glory of Thine Ascension festival
In these few minutes' space
Passing before my face.
Here do I bow my head,
And in my heart be said
Things of adoring love my tongue all weak
Frames not itself to speak.
Oh, here is bitterest bitter and sweetest sweet;
And here is hunger and thirst and drink and meat;
And here are clouds of agony, the mist
Wherefrom doth rise the glory of the sun;
Here the defeat and here the victory won;
And here is God Himself in Eucharist.
And in my heart be said
Things of adoring love my tongue all weak
Frames not itself to speak.
Oh, here is bitterest bitter and sweetest sweet;
And here is hunger and thirst and drink and meat;
And here are clouds of agony, the mist
Wherefrom doth rise the glory of the sun;
Here the defeat and here the victory won;
And here is God Himself in Eucharist.
9
2
FOUND IN THE TEMPLE
Long since, a sorrowing woman sought her Son;
Among her kinsfolk and acquaintance sought,
And all in vain; till last her footsteps brought
This Mother to God's temple. Daylight shone
Upon her night of tears; her quest was won;
For there she found her Darling. Wisdom-fraught,
One glorious Charity, He sat and wrought
The work His Father gave Him to be done.
Among her kinsfolk and acquaintance sought,
And all in vain; till last her footsteps brought
This Mother to God's temple. Daylight shone
Upon her night of tears; her quest was won;
For there she found her Darling. Wisdom-fraught,
One glorious Charity, He sat and wrought
The work His Father gave Him to be done.
O Jesus, when we seek Thee sorrowing,
Shall we not surely find Thee when we go
Where Thy dear flamelet ever burns to show
Thy Presence in Thy temple. Here we cling
Unto Thy feet, dear Lord who stoopest low
To lift us to the Presence of our King.
Shall we not surely find Thee when we go
Where Thy dear flamelet ever burns to show
Thy Presence in Thy temple. Here we cling
Unto Thy feet, dear Lord who stoopest low
To lift us to the Presence of our King.
3
A SONNET OF THE MOST HOLY
EUCHARIST
To eye of sense, only a cake of wheat!
To eye of sense, only a little wine!
To Faith's clear sight, the Majesty divine,
God's heart with its eternal human beat,
And God's own wounded hands and wounded feet,
And side, spear-torn to be for aye the shrine
Where contrite hearts, pierced by that love benign,
Know that His justice and His mercy meet.
To eye of sense, only a little wine!
To Faith's clear sight, the Majesty divine,
God's heart with its eternal human beat,
10
And side, spear-torn to be for aye the shrine
Where contrite hearts, pierced by that love benign,
Know that His justice and His mercy meet.
To Thee, O glorious Guest, to Thee whose word
Of charity hath bidden us to be,
Heart, soul and spirit bend with bended knee.
Smite Thou and slay our hate, our pride, dear Lord,
Here in our kneeling, with the two-edged sword
Of Thy dread love and dread humility.
Of charity hath bidden us to be,
Heart, soul and spirit bend with bended knee.
Smite Thou and slay our hate, our pride, dear Lord,
Here in our kneeling, with the two-edged sword
Of Thy dread love and dread humility.
4
WHENCE TO ME
Whence to me, that the Mother of my Lord
Should come to me?
So, from Elizabeth's humility,
Went forth the word
Before the inviolate Shrine, wherein that day
The mighty Lord of all creation lay.
Should come to me?
So, from Elizabeth's humility,
Went forth the word
Before the inviolate Shrine, wherein that day
The mighty Lord of all creation lay.
Whence to us, that our God and Sovran Lord
Should come to us?
Come in His Manhead and His Godhead thus;
Come to accord
On this poor altar, made the loveliest place,
His gift most wonderful, His sweetest grace?
Should come to us?
Come in His Manhead and His Godhead thus;
Come to accord
On this poor altar, made the loveliest place,
His gift most wonderful, His sweetest grace?
11
6
IN REPARATION
A First Friday's Communion
What can we do, dear Lord, to make amends
For all the ills that we have heaped on Thee?
Our meanness for Thy generosity;
The wrong of day by day, that never ends;
The wounding in the house of us Thy friends;—
And all the nameless weight of infamy,
The unuttered shame of that fell century
Whose blasting breath still day by day ascends?
For all the ills that we have heaped on Thee?
Our meanness for Thy generosity;
The wrong of day by day, that never ends;
The wounding in the house of us Thy friends;—
And all the nameless weight of infamy,
The unuttered shame of that fell century
Whose blasting breath still day by day ascends?
This will we do, most wronged, most patient One;
At Thy dear feet Thy penitents will kneel,
And Thou wilt lift them into Thy embrace,
These who in reparation fair have won
The gift of gifts wherein Thou dost reveal
The splendour of Thine all-forgiving grace.
At Thy dear feet Thy penitents will kneel,
And Thou wilt lift them into Thy embrace,
These who in reparation fair have won
The gift of gifts wherein Thou dost reveal
The splendour of Thine all-forgiving grace.
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