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Author Topic: Fr. Leonard Feeney, S.J. (RIP) Poems  (Read 966 times)

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Offline Knight Templar

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  • Save your servant. Remember me, O Lord.
    • Unam Sanctam
Fr. Leonard Feeney, S.J. (RIP) Poems
« on: March 30, 2022, 09:37:30 PM »
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  • Excerpted from the book “Leonard Feeney Omnibus.”

    “Whenever the bright blue nails would drop
    Down on the floor of his carpenter shop,
    Saint Joseph, prince of carpenter men,
    Would stoop to gather them up again;
    And he feared for two little sandals sweet,
    And very easy to pierce they were
    As they pattered over the lumber there
    And rode on two little sacred feet.
    But alas, on a hill between earth and heaven
    One day – two nails in a cross were driven,
    And fastened it firm to the sacred feet
    Where once rode two little sandals sweet;
    And Christ and His mother looked off in death
    Afar – to the valley of Nazareth,
    Where the carpenter’s shop was spread with dust
    And the little blue nails, all packed in rust,
    Slept in a box on the window-sill;
    And Joseph lay sleeping under the hill.”

    I beg you, O Lord, remember not the sins of my youth, the faults of ignorance, but in your mercy keep me in mind in the brightness of your glory.

    Offline NaomhAdhamhnan

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    Re: Fr. Leonard Feeney, S.J. (RIP) Poems
    « Reply #1 on: March 31, 2022, 03:20:46 AM »
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  • Beautiful
    "When human beings have been brutalised by impurity, they will allow themselves to be enslaved without making any attempt to react." ~ Fr. Fahey

    TRUE humility of King St. Louis IX:
    “A Christian should argue with a blasphemer only by running his sword through his bowels as far as it will go."


    Offline Knight Templar

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    • Save your servant. Remember me, O Lord.
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    Re: Fr. Leonard Feeney, S.J. (RIP) Poems
    « Reply #2 on: March 31, 2022, 08:14:15 PM »
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  • Excerpted from the same aforementioned.

    “There Was a Little Girl” by Fr. Leonard Feeney

    “There was a little girl just like you,
    With eyes as big and bright and true.
    She loved to laugh and play and run,
    The same as you or anyone.
    O dulcis, et pia
    Puellula Maria!

    And in the April of the year,
    When all the long lost flowers appear,
    An angel came to her one day,
    And said to put her dolls away.
    O dulcis, et pia
    Puellula Maria!


    She meekly bowed her little head,
    To what the blessed angel said,
    And swift as the flying of a dove,
    She changed from child to mother love.
    O dulcis, et pia
    Puellula Maria!


    Thus as the years go by for you,
    You’ll change, as all must children do.
    Love with its burdens, love with its woe,
    Will come as it came, long, long ago…
    O dulcis, et pia
    Puellula Maria!


    But lest your little heart be torn,
    With sorrows ache and sorrows thorn,
    Teach it to love and ever stand,
    Close to the touch of the little hand…of
    O dulcis, et pia
    Puellula Maria!


    And when you’re old and gray and lone,
    She’ll come to claim you for her own,
    Take you to heaven, out of pain,
    Make you a little girl, ever again…
    O dulcis, et pia
    Puellula Maria!”



    I beg you, O Lord, remember not the sins of my youth, the faults of ignorance, but in your mercy keep me in mind in the brightness of your glory.

    Offline Nadir

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    Re: Fr. Leonard Feeney, S.J. (RIP) Poems
    « Reply #3 on: March 31, 2022, 08:32:38 PM »
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  • Help of Christians, guard our land from assault or inward stain,
    Let it be what God has planned, His new Eden where You reign.

    Offline StLouisIX

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    Re: Fr. Leonard Feeney, S.J. (RIP) Poems
    « Reply #4 on: March 31, 2022, 08:34:23 PM »
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  • Thank you so much for posting these magnificent poems, they are well worth spreading around! 


    Online Mark 79

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    Re: Fr. Leonard Feeney, S.J. (RIP) Poems
    « Reply #5 on: April 01, 2022, 10:14:06 AM »
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  • Excerpted from the book “Leonard Feeney Omnibus.”
    Possible to use higher contrast for better readability?

    Offline Merry

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    Re: Fr. Leonard Feeney, S.J. (RIP) Poems
    « Reply #6 on: April 01, 2022, 12:52:42 PM »
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  • A Priest's Offertory

    Had I a whiter host to give
    In snowier garments wouldst Thou live.
    Thine were a chalice rich and old
    Had I a better thing than gold.
    Thy wine-press would know the sweet
    Warm treading of an angel's feet.
    Thy wheatfields were grown afar
    In the soft meadowland of – star!
    If priceless linen could I buy
    Upon such linen wouldst Thou lie;
    Something more virginal than bees
    Would spin Thee purer lights than these.
    I'd going, borrowing, take a hymn
    From the white, born-singing Seraphim.
    I'd plunder beauty in the night,
    Star-stripping yonder worlds of light,
    I'd color-strip each wondrous, rare
    High-blooming, low-blooming, radiant there
    Refolded flower, firm and fair
    In a green-valleyed everywhere.
    (Christ's Mother!  Attend this feast.
    Gift-load to-day His giftless priest.)


    Midnight one night was still,
    Heaven was whitening a hill;
    Dark floundered in the wave of morn,
    Infinite Infancy was born.
    Eternal Power sank below,
    A frail white miracle of snow.
    Eternal Wonder left the skies
    And dwindled into two soft eyes,
    Child limbs that could not reach,
    Child lips that knew no speech
    Spoken, - save the murmurings heard
    From breathing beast, wind and bird.
    The unbeginning God began
    To live the long slow hours of man.
    His Mother, bending her fair head,
    Straw-gathering-she laid His bed.
    A whirling star-world came and halted
    Above a blown-roofed, low, thatch-vaulted
    Cave – Ah! Are we not agreed?
    'Twas piteous royalty indeed!
    And yet beyond an Infant's sleep
    Found He a hiddenness more deep.
    Finds it each morning when I stand,
    He, in the curved holding of my hand.
    Starlight is light but ill,
    Star-shadow – darker still;
    The lone firefly that wields
    His fine blue lantern in the fields
    Is far more luminous than Thou
    Who hideth Thine endless splendor – how!


    The rose more glory has to rate her
    Lovelier than the Rose-Creator.
    The violet is mantled finer
    Than the world's own Flower-Designer,
    Hill-Builder and Meadow-Weaver,
    Earth-Waker, Cloud-Conceiver.
    The blind beggar, kneeling while I pass
    Through the sweet words old, told in the Mass,
    Sunnier visions light his dreams
    Than Thine, dark-locked – in death, it seems.
    Covered indeed – and covered how!
    Veil-shielded lest perchance I know
    Not when the long day is sped:
    Ah! Is this Jesus or is it bread?
    I, Christ, who brought Thee down,
    Must label Thee, to know mine own,
    Must light a swinging lamp on high,
    Lest all men, turning, pass Thee by.
    Thou knowest my voice upon the wine;
    Faith knoweth Thee – but no eyes of mine.


    Wings fell, swords fell, scabbards fell
    Into the yawning throat of Hell;
    An Angel host – O Heaven's loss! –
    Would not adore Thee on the Cross.
    Yet on the Cross when Thou wert lain
    Could they not see what love was slain?
    Observed they not Thy Godly mien,
    How Thou didst welcome death, serene?
    How deeper, broader Hell would be
    If Lucifer were asked to see
    And worship as we worship Thee.                                                                                                                                                                                          

    (Ah, when I speak the words that bring
    Such helplessness on Heaven's King
    Well, little Mass-bell, mightest thou ring.)


    Rise manhood, in me rise!
    Desire, aspire to sacrifice.
    See how His warm blood stains the cup,
    Now with Himself lift thyself up.
    His paten is a burst of gold,
    How much of offering will it hold?
    Will it hold youth, - its bloom and glow?
    (These wilt Thou garner anyhow.)
    Will He take friend and loved one still?
    (The weed-strewn graveyard cries – "He will.")
    By Thee made, fashioned, let live,
    What may I free, untrammeled give?
    I give Thee a poor man bearing his load
    Along the poor man's bleak highroad;
    Now scorned – now pointed at with glee;
    "Yon fool wears Christ's mean livery!"


    I give Thee an angel? – somewhat less,
    Yet wishing an angel's stainlessness,
    Hoping Thy sunny love may yield
    A lily in a trampled field.
    I give Thee unchallenged, full control,
    Of what is empire in my soul.
    I lead Thee up the palace stair
    Of mine own heart – enthrone Thee there!
    If but a king forsooth may sing
    And be content to be a king;
    Unto Thee now, my vows renewed,
    I stamp and seal my servitude.
    I here proclaim Thy courts are fair;
    Charmeth and pleaseth me the air.
    I love the whole-souled, full-rolled ring
    Of war and front-line soldiering,
    Of men who bled – and when they fell –
    Did judge the tribes of Israel.
    Strip me of buckler, sword and lance,
    But Captain – let us both advance!
    Keep my poor eyes firm-fixed upon
    The altar where God slays His Son.
    O Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
    I would I had a whiter host!

                            - Leonard Feeney, S.J.

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    If any one saith that true and natural water is not of necessity for baptism, and on that account wrests to some sort of metaphor those words of Our Lord Jesus Christ, "Unless a man be born again of water and the Holy Ghost...,"  Let Him Be Anathama.  -COUNCIL OF TRENT Sess VII Canon II “On Baptism"

    Online Mark 79

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    Re: Fr. Leonard Feeney, S.J. (RIP) Poems
    « Reply #7 on: April 01, 2022, 01:21:51 PM »
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  • Thank you. I should have done that myself.