"King of the Friday"

Our pastor, who is, as they say, FBI, is wont to recite a poem or two he learned as a child at close of Mass or during the homily.
Often he will proclaim it in Irish as well and English.
I look forward to hearing this at least once every Lent

King of the Friday

O King of the Friday
Whose limbs were stretched on the Cross,
O Lord, who did suffer
The bruises, the wounds, the loss,

     We stretch ourselves
     Beneath the shield of thy might,
     Some fruit from the tree of thy pass
     Fall on us this night...

Beautiful, hopeful thought, is it not? that some Fruit from that tree might fall upon us?

Why I Love Eccles...

... and hope someday to be as saved as he is.

So he writes a very amusing post, that convinces me I must embroider a sampler that says "Sona Si Latine Loqueris" (though I'm thinking "honk if you LOVE..." might be better.)

Then a commenter has a little snatch of a lyric or poem that I had to hunt down.
And now I know that Oliver Wendell Holmes wrote this delightful little almost-limerick.

God's plan made a hopeful beginning. 
But man spoiled his chances by sinning. 
We trust that the story 
Will end in God's glory. 
But, at present, the other side's winning.

I suppose I should have entitled this, "Why the Internet is Such a Time Suck."

And Why Will Saving the Liturgy Save the World?

Should I confess, I always thought Dana Gioia was a woman?

There will always be those who reject ceremony...
And they are right. Symbols betray us.
They are always more or less than what
is really meant. But shall there be no
processions by torchlight because we are weak?
What native speech do we share, but imperfection? ...
Praise to the rituals that celebrate change,
old robes worn for new beginnings,
solemn protocol where the mutable soul,
surrounded by ancient experience,
grows young in the imagination’s white dress.

Because it is not the rituals we honor
but our trust in what they signify, these rites
that honor us as witnesses—whether to watch
lovers swear loyalty in a careless world
or a newborn washed with water and oil....
let the old be touched by youth's
wayward astonishment at learning something new,
and dream of a future so fitting and so just
that our desire will bring it into being.