Tuesday, December 8, 2009

'We should not wish to see or do anything which could not be done in the presence of God and His creatures, and we shall thus imagine that we are always in His presence.'

St. Ignatius of Loyola

'Pray in peace and serenity, sing intelligently and in a good state - and you will be like a young eagle soaring high in the sky.'

St. Nilus of Sinai

'The Church is thy hope, the Church is thy salvation, the Church is thy refuge.'

St. John Chrysostom

I am beginning to feel the Christmas spirit.. I am going to start listening to the music and that will be the trick.

My two favorite seasons are Christmas and Lent. . Of course it is not Christmas yet. . But it is nearer and nearer.

I doubt I will have time to be able to gather as many quotations as I would like especially for this season, but I will try.

I have some modernly updated quotations of St. Robert Southwell already long used, but today.. a treat.

Older English.. Some of it Christmas poetry. . .

St. Peter's Complaint

Launch forth, my soule, into a maine of teares,
Full fraught with griefe, the trafficke of thy mind;
Torn sailes will serue, thoughts rent with guilty feares:
Giue Care the sterne, vse sighs in lieu of wind:
Remorse, thy pilot; thy misdeede thy card ;
Torment thy hauen, shipwrack thy best reward.

Shun not the shelfe of most deserued shame;
Sticke in the sands of agonizing dread;
Content thee to be stormes' and billowes' game;
Diuorct from drace, thy soule to pennace wed;
Fly not from forraine euils, fly from thy hart;
Worse then the worst of euils is that thou art.

Give vent vnto the vapours of thy brest,
That thicken in the brimmes of cloudie eyes;
Where sinne was hatcht, let teares now wash the nest;
Where life was lost, recouer life with cryes.
Thy trespasse foule, let not thy teares be few,
Baptize thy spotted soule in weeping dew.

... And later. . .

The Burning Babe

As I in hoary Winter's night stood shiveringe in the snowe,
Surpris'd I was with sodayne heat, which made my hart to glowe;
And liftinge upp a fearefull eye to vewe what fire was nere,
A prety Babe all burninge bright, did in the ayre appeare;
Who scorched with excessive heate, such floodes of teares did shedd,
As though His floodes should quench His flames which with His teares were fedd;

Alas! quoth He, but newly borne, in fiery heates I frye,
Yet none approch to warme their hartes or feele my fire but I!
My faultles brest the fornace is, the fuell woundinge thornes,
Love is the fire, and sighes the smoke, the ashes shame and scornes;
The fuell Justice layeth on, and Mercy blowes the coales,
The mettall in this fornace wrought are men's defiled soules,
for which, as nowe on fire I am, to worke them to their good,

So will I melt into a bath to washe them in My bloode:
With this He vanisht out of sight, and swiftly shroncke awaye,
And straight I called unto mynde that it was Christmas daye.

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