You are here: Home › Poems – Sr Alacoque Brien Poems – Sr Alacoque Brien Poems of: Sr Claudette Bogner Sr Katy van Wyk: 1. The Call 2. In the Stillness… 3. It is only in Darkness… 4. In Praise of One… Sr Mary McCreath Sr Sylvia van Vuuren Sr Raymond Whyte (1859 – 1934) Sr Alacoque Brien (1877 – 1953) ¬† ¬† Hymn in Honour of Saint Louis Bertrand OP – 1896 Come, Children of St Dominic to-day in joyful praise Of Dominic‚Äôs worthy son St Louis your hearts and voices raise. Ye Catholics of sunny Spain with us in song unite It was in your nice Southern land, that first he saw the light. While in the cradle still he lay, his heart to God was give‚Äôn, In Boyhood‚Äôs careless days his thoughts were always turned to Heaven. Behold in early youth he joined St Dominic‚Äôs white robed band; And soon he bore the Gospel‚Äôs truth far off to Western land. The poisoned bowl, the risk of life, nothing could quench his fire. To win all souls for God and Heav‚Äôn, this was his sole desire And thus when life‚Äôs last hour drew near, he heard the Master‚Äôs word: ‚ÄúCome, faithful servant, enter in the glory of thy Lord!‚ÄĚ Enthroned in endless bliss above, the victor‚Äôs crown he wears; with love he looks on us, who weep in this sad vale of tears. Great Saint! Dom‚Äônic‚Äôs name which we in common with thee bear, Pray that his spirit still may reign in us, his children here. ¬† That we may learn to live and work for God, and God alone; And by our ev‚Äôry word and act to make Him better known. And when His summons calls us hence; from this dark exile land, We may in Heaven swell the ranks of Dom‚Äônic‚Äôs white robed band ¬† Suscipe Take Thou my life ‚Äď my little life And make it full of Thee And prune with Thy unsparing knife All that there is of me. Take Thou my talents every one, Be they or great or small, For Thy dear glory not my own Lord, take and use them all. Take Thou my heart, my worthless heart, That all would scorn but Thee And let it have in Thine a part Thine ever let it be. What e‚Äôer I have thou gavest me Nought have I that is mine Then take my life, my love, my all And make me only Thine. ‚ÄĒS.M.A South African Catholic Magazine, 1911¬† ¬† To Her only Son O Little Son, into whose azure eyes‚ÄĒ I gaze and ever find with sweet surprise The whiteness of thy spirit shames the snow Has left a shining impress on thy brow. Strayed earthward, How my happy, happy heart In spring, since thou did‚Äôst come to form a part In Holy Writ, scarce understood by me, Their meaning written on thy brow I see God loved the world and gave ‚Äď ‚ÄúHis only Son‚ÄĚ. Thy coming hath made plainer, little one, Of life and home. The mystery of those words Makes music like the carols of the birds Thy smile doth seem a bit of Heaven‚Äôs bliss Just newly driven, and an Angel‚Äôs kiss New depths of love, O little son, God-given A reflex of the smiling summer heaver ¬†‚ÄĒS.M.A.¬† South African Catholic Magazine, 1911 ¬† Love‚Äôs Impotence He called it ‚Äústrong as death to work its will‚ÄĚ. Sorrow‚Äôs wild cry? How often do we seek Of all the show‚Äôrs that course adown the cheek And ne‚Äôer so weak as when we fain would prove Of love‚Äôs dire helplessness, and prayer can move Of suffering from hearts we love. Thus God Maketh love‚Äôs impotence love‚Äôs chastening rod. A mighty hand to draw the rankling thorn It strongest. Yet ‚Äėtis well! For prayer is born Of one more dear than life. Nay, love is weak We cannot bid one tear less hotly flow In vain to soothe some loved one‚Äôs lightest woe! Alas! methought, where is love‚Äôs power to still Of Love‚Äôs vast might I heard a poet speak. ‚ÄĒ¬†S.M.A. South African Catholic Magazine, 1910 ¬† ‚ÄúLord if Thou Wilt, Thou Canst make me Clean.‚ÄĚ Covered with sin‚Äôs leprosy, Jesus! Lord! I come to Thee, As of old the outcast came, Drawn by Thy great Mercy‚Äôs fame, Crying in his rags and shame: ‚ÄúLord, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make me Clean.‚ÄĚ On my poor unsightly soul Not one spot is clean and whole; Men its loathsomeness would spurn, And in horror from me turn, Could they its foul wounds discern, ‚ÄúLord, if Thou wilt, Thou canst make me Clean.‚ÄĚ At Thy feet woman knelt; Scornful hearts no pity felt, Thy Heart‚Äôs tender love was such Thou didst bear her tainted touch. ‚ÄúMuch she loves; forgiven is much. Lord, Thou didst will, and she was made Clean.‚ÄĚ Much I‚Äôve sinned and little loved, Yet be Thou to pity moved. Wilt Thou me alone disdain? Jesus! must I plead in vain? Speak Thy potent word again: Say but, ‚ÄúI will it. Be thou made Clean.‚ÄĚ South African Catholic Magazine, 1910 ¬† Marguerite Sweet star-blossom with heart of gold Little white marguerite! Nestling close to Love‚Äôs Prison Hold, Dying at Jesus‚Äô Feet. I gaze upon you and hot tears flow, While memories pure and sweet Steal o‚Äôer my soul of the Long Ago, And another white Marguerite. Would she have sullied her petals of snow, Or wilted in passion‚Äôs hear? God only knoweth, but this I know He gathered my Marguerite. ‚ÄĒS.M.A. South African Catholic Magazine, 1911 ¬† De Profundus Out of the depths I cry to Thee Depths of sin and misery God, my God oh, pity me! Weakling and craven, Lord am I, Lend Thou Thine ear to my anguished cry, Help! Or I perish where I lie. Dear God! I have fallen low, so low If Thou no pitying look bestow How to rise up I do not know. Lift me with Thine Almighty hand, Let me once more in They Presence stand Whence my own folly hath me banned. Wash Thou the filth from my sordid soul, Touch Thou her wounds and make them whole. Silence her bitter remorseful dole! Thy little creature wilt thou slight? Cast out forever from Thy sight Must I die here in the fearful night? No! for I see Thy tender face Bending o‚Äôer me to Thy strengthening Grace Giveth new courage to run the race. Oh! Let me cling to Thy Father Hand Close and more close till the heights are scanned That lead to my Home in the Heavenly land. Where Thy Beauty unveiled shall my soul enthral And never again shall I stumble and fall Far down from Thee, my God, my All! ‚ÄĒS.M.A.