Poetry
I Point My Tan-Topped Hands To Him, (a God poem)
wind myself up the way my buddy, Dave, taught me when I was fifteen, kick my leg toward high heaven land on it, pivot,
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wind myself up the way my buddy, Dave, taught me when I was fifteen, kick my leg toward high heaven land on it, pivot,
Through her heart, His sorrow sharing, all His bitter anguish bearing, now at length the sword has passed. I. As He Leaves the Palace of
He is buried in Calvary Cemetery in Woodside, Queens under a cross and his own words: “Peace O My Rebel Heart”. Claude McKay (1889-1948) was
Expectans Expectavi With expectation I have waited for the Lord, and he was attentive to me.— Psalm 39:2, Douay Rheims Bible Knowing you so near,
But Jesus said to them: “Suffer the little children, and forbid them not to come to me: for the kingdom of heaven is for such.”
“Hasten to Aid Thy Fallen People” How does one make a song of holiness? Or speak of music without spoiling it? They both seem
THE SONG OF ELIZABETH SETON Elizabeth was just a girl, And watched as her young mother died. Her father, in his Yankee way,
“Gloriosa Dicta Sunt De Te” When we think of our land, we often think Of those bare wilds waiting to be claimed, As if it
The Agnus Dei of Jacques Marquette Before the thousands, Père Marquette stood up to preach, That through the Blessed Virgin none escape his
[Editor’s Note: This is the third of a seven-poem song cyle James Matthew Wilson wrote commemorating the Mass of the Americas. In it, he fleshes
