Classic Poem

Mother of God, in thy surpassing grace
The Christian priest his glorious type may trace;
His functions study in thy life divine,
And sigh to thee for virtues like to thine.
What holy orders to his soul might be
Was thy conception's sanctity to thee:
A sacramental fount, a living well,
Whence all thy mighty stream of graces fell —
That purest love which in thy lowly womb
Made heaven's great Exile find a royal home —
That thrill of rapturous joy when Jesus pressed
His infant lips upon thy virgin-breast —
That strength to bear thy more than martyr's sword
And murmur still, " the Handmaid of the Lord."
Then, Lady, look with pity upon one
Who bears the priestly image of thy Son;
By whose unworthy hands and trembling breath
The Victim-Priest renews his mystic death —
Whose functions bind him to thy highest care,
While conscience cries, " Presumptuous man, beware."
O Glorious Queen, thy lamp was kindled bright
In thy conception: yet, through all the night,
Waiting the King of kings, thy prudent toil
Trimmed and replenished it with purest oil.
My priestly lamp burns dim; Oh, pray thy Spouse,
Within my sluggish spirit to arouse
The grace the priestly character demands,
Pledged by the pontiff's venerable hands.