On! all ye fair and radiant things,
That born of earth to earth decay,
Frail children of the vanished springs,
On you we sprinkle dust today!
 
Colour and scent and form allied
In garden gay and woodland bough,
The maiden’s blush, the athlete’s pride,
Ashes and dust your portion now!
 
What were ye but God’s vesture bright
A moment worn and cast away?
Your only loveliness the light
His Spirit caused to dance and play.
 
And we? We saw, but saw not Him:
We heard, but not the tireless note
Of His exulting seraphim
Above earth’s scrannel music float.
 
Now on deaf ears, and hearts of sin,
The pride of life, and the eye’s lust
To see, but not to see within,
Today - today we sprinkle dust.
 
Ash Wednesday by W.J. Ferrar

I come in the little things,
Saith the Lord;
Not borne on morning wings
Of majesty; but I have set my feet
Amidst the delicate and bladed wheat
That springs triumphant in the furrowed sod--
There do I dwell, in weakness and in power;
Not broken or divided, said our God!
In your straight garden plot I come to flower;
About your porch my vine,
Meek, fruitful, doth entwine,
Waits, at the threshold, Love’s appointed hour.

I come in the little things,
Saith the Lord;
Yea, on the glancing wings
Of eager birds, the soft and pattering feet
Of furred and gentle beasts, I come to meet
Your hard and wayward heart. In brown bright eyes
That peep from out the brake, I stand confest.
On every nest
Where feathery Patience is content to brood
And leaves her pleasure for the high emprise
Of motherhood--
There does my Godhead rest.

I come in the little things,
Saith the Lord;
My starry wings I do forsake,
Love’s highway of humility to take;
Meekly I fit my stature to your need.
In beggar’s part
About your gates I shall not cease to plead
As man, to speak with man
Till by such art
I shall achieve my immemorial plan;
Pass the low lintel of the human heart.

Evelyn Underhill, 1875-1941

Given, not lent,
And not withdrawn – once sent,
This Infant of mankind, this One,
Is still the little welcome Son.
 
New every year,
New-born and newly dear,
He comes with tidings and a song,
The ages long, the ages long;
 
Even as the cold
Keen winter grows not old,
As childhood is so fresh, foreseen,
And spring in the familiar green –
 
Sudden as sweet
Come the expected feet.
All joy is young, and new all art,
And He, too, whom we have seen by heart.
 
Alice Meynell, 1847-1922

Mary, Mother of the Lord
Peacemaker who repairest
Man’s and Angel’s old accord
Through the dear Christ thou barest;
Pray yet for us, entreat thy Son
Until the Love Divine is won
To show us grace, and so efface transgression
That we may freely run
To heavenly fruition,
Our day of exile done.

Austin Farrer, 1904-1968

Nay, not gold
At His Crib I hold;
Base metal is mine heart, and bare my hand.
I may not canopy His Altars high
With warm blue wreaths. How cold and ashen-dry
These prayers that I had planned!

Myrrh at His Cross’ foot I lay -
All my dull worth of patience harshly strong
To plod by day or night my short life long
(Grim on God’s errands gay)
His own parched footsore way!

A.S. Cripps, 1869-1952

They scarcely waked before they slept,
They scarcely wept before they laughed;
They drank indeed death’s bitter draught,
But all its bitterest dregs were kept
And drained by Mothers while they wept.
 
From Heaven the speechless Infants speak:
Weep not (they say), our Mothers dear,
For swords nor sorrows come not here.
Now we are strong who were so weak,
And all is ours we could not seek.
 
We bloom among the blooming flowers,
We sing among the singing birds;
Wisdom we have who wanted words:
Here morning knows not evening hours,
All’s rainbow here without the showers.
 
And softer than our Mother’s breast,
And closer than our Mother’s arm,
Is here the Love that keeps us warm
And broods above our happy next.
Dear Mothers, come: for Heaven is best.
 
Holy Innocents
by Christina Rossetti, 1830-1894

Now let us sing, both more and less
Of Christ’s coming Deo gracias.
 
A virgin pure, this is full sure,
Gabriel did her greet,
And all her cure, I am full sure,
Ever did endure,
Deo gracias!
 
A Babe was born, early by the morn,
And laid between the ox and the ass,
The Child they knew that was born new
On Him they blew:
Deo gracias!
 
An angel full soon sang from aboon:
Gloria in Excelsis!
That lady alone might make no moan,
For love of One,
Deo gracias!
 
This Babe is bought when we were brought
Into great thought and dreadful case;
Therefore we sing, both old and ying,
Of Christ’s coming:
Deo gracias!

edited by Edith Rickert, 1871-1938
from Ancient English Christmas Carols

Yet if his Majesty our Sovereign Lord
Should of his own accord
Friendly himself invite,
And say, ‘I’ll be your guest tomorrow night,’
How should we stir ourselves, call and command
All hands to work! ‘Let no man idle stand!
Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall,
See they be fitted all;
Let there be room to eat,
And order taken that there want no meat!
See every sconce and candlestick made bright,
That without tapers they may give a light!
Look to the presence: are the carpets spread,
The dais o’er the head,
The cushions in the chairs,
And all the candles lighted on the stairs?
Perfume the chambers, and in any case
Let each man give attendance in his place’.
Thus if the king were coming would we do,
And ’twere good reason too;
For ’tis a duteous thing
To show all honour to an earthly king,
And after all our travail and our cost,
So he be pleased, to think no labour lost.
But at the coming of the King of Heaven
All’s set at six and seven;
We wallow in our sin,
Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn.
We entertain Him always like a stranger,
And, as at first, still lodge Him in the manger.
 
from a manuscript, Christ Church College, Oxford

‘Am I not here who am thy Mother -
What dost thou fear?’
 
Deep in the tangled brushwood of my hours,
You are a sudden clearing, Madre mia,
Amid the choke of thorn,
Incredible rose.
 
And where my fears sit huddled in their trembling,
You are a soft word spoken, O Maria,
In heart’s cacophany, a splendid chord!
 
Brave alabaster out of hope-shards builded,
What need I dream of beauty, I who know
Curve of your cheek, the raven hair low-winging,
Soft swell of lip, the delicate flight of brow!
 
Exuberance, be hedged in Christ oh! Sweetly
 
By this rumorous smile’s so wistful bands;
And sorrow, find your meaning, find your haven
In this gentle fold of olive hands.
 
Authentic glimpse of heaven, Madre mia,
Your image my supernal dividend
On sorrow, and my pledge past all devising
 
Of paradisal day. What shall I fear
Of pain, of death, of diverse ignominy
When you are here, Maria, when you are here.
 
Mother Mary Francis PCC, 1921-2006

Mary Immaculate,
Merely a woman, yet
Whose presence, power is
Great as no goddess’s
Was deemèd, dreamèd; who
This one work has to do--
Let all God’s glory through,
God’s glory which would go
Through her and from her flow
Off, and no way but so.
 
Gerard Manley Hopkins SJ, 1844-1889

As blessed Andrew, on a day,
By fishing did his living earn,
Christ came, and called him away,
That he to fish for men might learn:
And no delay thereat he made,
Nor questions fram’d of his intent,
But quite forsaking all he had,
Along with Him that call’d he went.
 
Oh, that we could so ready be,
To follow Christ when He doth call!
And that we could forsake, as he,
Those nets that we are snar’d withal:
Or would this fisherman of men,
(Who set by all he had so light)
By his obedience shewed then
(And his example) win us might.
 
But precepts and examples fail,
Till Thou Thy grace, Lord, add thereto;
O grant it, and we shall prevail
In whatsoe’er Thou bidst us do:
Yea we shall then that bliss conceive,
Which in Thy service we may find,
And for Thy sake be glad to leave
Our nets, and all we have, behind.
 
George Wither, 1588-1667

​We offered a very moving Solemn Requiem yesterday for Remembrance Sunday, concluding with the Absolution of the Dead, wherein we remembered and prayed for all those who gave their lives for others in the conflicts and wars of the past. On Saturday evening the annual Festival of Remembrance was broadcast on the BBC. One of the  poems read aloud was the very moving High Flight, written by a 19 year-old RCAF pilot just a few months before his death over the skies of England. I’m surprised, after learning more about the fame of this poem, that I’d never come across it until this past weekend. I reproduce here.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
of sun-split clouds, — and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
Where never lark, or even eagle flew --
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
– Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

John Gillespie Magee Jr, 1922-1941

Heaven’s great triad still abideth,
The divinely blended Three,--
Faith, Hope, and Charity,--
Over all supreme presideth.

Faith in Him whose love protecteth,
And through sorrow, sin, and strife,
As His power to all gave life,
All controlleth, all directeth.

Hope – that like a constellation,
Ever smiling from above,
Brings with ever-living love
God’s bright promise of salvation.

Charity – of all supremest,
Greatest, noblest of the three--
Beam upon us, Charity!
Bringing blessings as thou beamest.

John Bowring, 1792-1872

Blessed was the day
and welcome was the hour
whereon God’s Virgin Mother
was brought forth.

​For of that birth
Isaiah spoke
and said in prophecy
that a noble tree would spring
out of the root of Jesse,
and that this tree a bloom would bear
on which the Holy Spirit
of God himself would rest.

Blessed was the day
and welcome was the hour
whereon God’s Virgin Mother
was brought forth.

King Alfonsus of Castile, 13th century

Christ Jesus on a certain day
Upon a mountain went to pray,
Commanding Peter to be there,
And John and James to join in pray’r:
When, lo! the fashion of his face
Was alter’d through exceeding grace,
And all his garments glist’ring white
By far outshone the morning-light:
And, lo! two men talk’d with them there,
Which Moses and Elias were,
Who came in glory from their peace,
And spake to him of his decease,
To happen in a certain space,
And nam’d Jerusalem the place.
Peter mean time and th’ other twain
Slept sound, and when they woke again,
The bright appearance that he made,
And two men with him they survey’d:
Now haply as they went away,
The elder saint began to say,
‘Lord, it is pleasant to abide,
‘And in this place let us provide
‘Three tabernacles for the three,
‘Elias, Amram’s son, and thee’
This spake he on that great event,
Not understanding what he meant.
A cloud descended over-head,
And cover’d them, as this he said;
And now their hearts began to quake,
As in the cloud they entrance make:
And from the cloud a voice there broke,
Which thus the trembling saints bespoke,
‘This is my best beloved Son,
‘Attend that his commands be done!’
When those disciples heard the sound,
They straight fell prostrate to the ground.
But Christ approaching to their aid,
And touching them, ‘Be not afraid,
(He cry’d) ‘but instantly arise’
And when they lifted up their eyes,
No man they either see or hear,
Save Jesus only standing near:
And as the mountain’s brow they leave,
From Christ they this command receive,
‘This vision to no man explain,
‘Till Christ your Lord be ris’n again.’
Our Saviour’s want, and friendless state,
Which all the race of worldlings hate,
Were one great cause the restif Jews
Did his blest ambassage refuse:
Hence ev’n the very twelve were prone
To flee and leave the Lord alone
He therefore shew’d this glorious sight,
Transfigur’d into ghostly light,
To fortify the faith of those
Which from the chosen he had chose.
The caution giv’n, that they should hide
This vision, till their Master died
And rose again, was on this wise,
Lest envy ’mongst the nine should rise;
Or drive the Jews by crime on crime,
To cut off Christ before his time.​

Christopher Smart, 1722-1771

When blessed Marie wip’d her Saviours feet,
(Whose precepts she had trampled on before,)
And wore them for a jewell on her head,
Shewing his steps should be the street
Wherein she thenceforth evermore
With pensive humblenesse would live and tread:
 
She being stain’d herself, why did she strive
To make Him clean who could not be defil’d?
Why kept she not her tears for her own faults,
And not his feet? Though we could dive
In tears like seas, our sinnes are pil’d
Deeper then they in words, and works, and thoughts.
 
Deare soul, she knew who did vouchsafe and deigne
To bear her filth, and that her sinnes did dash
Ev’n God himself: wherefore she was not loth,
As she had brought wherewith to stain,
So to bring in wherewith to wash;
And yet, in washing one, she washed both.
 
George Herbert, 1593-1633

Salvation to all that will is nigh;
That All, which always is all everywhere,
Which cannot sin, and yet all sins must bear,
Which cannot die, yet cannot choose but die,
Lo! faithful Virgin, yields Himself to lie
In prison, in thy womb; and though He there
Can take no sin, nor thou give, yet He’ll wear,
Taken from thence, flesh, which death’s force may try.
Ere by the spheres time was created thou
Wast in His mind, who is thy Son, and Brother;
Whom thou conceivest, conceived; yea, thou art now
Thy Maker’s maker, and thy Father’s mother,
Thou hast light in dark, and shutt’st in little room
Immensity, cloister’d in thy dear womb.

John Donne, 1572-1631

‘Thomas saith unto him, Lord, we know not whither thou goest;
and how can we know the way? Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life:
no man cometh unto the Father, but by me’. (St John 14.5-6)
 
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.
 
But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
 
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
 
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.
 
Christina Rossetti, 1830-1894

Fisher and More! in you the Church and State
Of England—England of the years gone by--
Her spiritual law, her civil equity,
Twins of one justice, for the last time sate
On equal thrones. ’Twas England’s day of fate:
Ye kenned the omens and stood up to die:
State-rule in Faith, ye knew, means heresy:
That truth ye wrote in blood, and closed debate
By act, not words. A blood as red, as pure,
They shed, that brave Carthusian brotherhood,
St Bruno’s silent sons. Martyrs! be sure
That o’er the land, thus doubly dyed and dewed,
The Faith your death confessed, shall rise renewed--
A tree of peace for ever to endure.
 
Aubrey de Vere, 1814-1902

O Holy Ghost, whose temple I
Am, but of mud walls and condensed dust,
And being sacrilegiously
Half wasted with youth’s fires, of pride and lust
Must with new storms be weather-beat;
Double in my heart Thy flame,
Which let devout sad tears intend; and let
(Though this glass lanthorn, flesh, do suffer maim)
Fire, Sacrifice, Priest, Altar be the same.

John Donne, 1572-1631

Come with birds’ voices when the light grows dim
Yet lovelier in departure and more dear:
While the warm flush hangs yet at heavens’ rim,
And the one star shines clear.
 
Though the swift night haste to approaching day
Stay Thou and stir not, brooding on the deep:
Thy secret love, Thy silent word let say
Within the senses’ sleep.
 
Softer than dew. But where the morning wind
Blows down the world, O Spirit! show Thy power:
Quicken the dreams within the languid mind
And bring Thy seed to flower!
 
from the Letters of Evelyn Underhill, 1875-1941

For those able to join me, it was a joy to be to resume public Masses yesterday, the last day of Eastertide and the great solemnity of Whitsunday. We had good numbers for both Masses, with blustery wind blowing through my domestic oratory at the morning Mass to add to the atmosphere and drama of the occasion. The afternoon Mass - our first in church since mid-March - was a particularly special moment. The light was clear and bright, the air crisp, and there was an overwhelming sense of calm and peace over the whole church. The choir, assembled in their (socially distanced!) loft, sang Hassler’s Missa Secunda, and motets by Palestrina and Attwood, and the final Regina Caeli was sung lustily by all, with a palpable sense of joy and relief. And now the Octave - Whit Week - begins!

Whitsuntide by Emily Manning, 1845-1890

The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.
 
Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.

from Little Gidding by T.S. Eliot OM, 1888-1965

I am Matthias; I am he who covers
The cloudy opening of the uttermost prison,
Where on went down - and is not re-arisen,-
Out of the Twelve who were the Lord Christ’s lovers,
About my name upon this day there hovers
A rumour of despair and desolation;
And even the Holy City’s glad salvation
Sighs for the memory of its exciled rovers.

I am Matthias, yea, and am another,
Installed within the bishopric of my brother;
I who am his oblivion am his fame.
I am the dream, upon your strife attending,
That all things, bound to a most perfect ending,
Shall be made one by Christ’s invincible Name.

Charles Williams, 1886-1945

Be thou then O thou dear
Mother, my atmosphere;
My happier world, wherein
To wend and meet no sin;
Above me, round me lie
Fronting my forward eye
With sweet and scarless sky;
Stir in my ears, speak there
O God’s love, O live air,
Of patience, penance, prayer;
Worldmothering air, air wild,
Wound with thee, in thee isled,
Fold home, fast fold thy child.

Gerard Manley Hopkins SJ, 1844-1889