A WORK OF LOVE.

O Jesu! O my Love! Each eve I come to fling

Before Thy sacred Cross sweet flowers of all the year.

By these plucked petals bright, my hands how gladly bring,

I long to dry Thine every tear!
To scatter flowers! -- that means each sacrifice,

My lightest sighs and pains, my heaviest, saddest hours,

My hopes, my joys, my prayers, -- I will not count the price.

Behold my flowers!

With deep, untold delight Thy beauty fills my soul.

Would I might light this love in hearts of all who live!

For this, my fairest flowers, all things in my control,

How fondly, gladly I would give!
To scatter flowers! -- behold my chosen sword

For saving sinners' souls and filling heaven's bowers.

The victory is mine: yes, I disarm Thee, Lord,
With these my flowers!
The petals in their flight caress Thy Holy Face;

They tell Thee that my heart is Thine, and Thine alone.

Thou knowest what these leaves are saying in my place;

On me Thou smilest from Thy throne.

To scatter flowers! -- that means, to speak of Thee, --

My only pleasure here, where tears fill all the hours;

But soon, with angel hosts, my spirit shall be free,

To scatter flowers!
June 28, 1896

A CANTICLE FOR THE SACRISTANS OF CARMEL,
AND FOR THOSE SISTERS WHOSE OFFICE IT IS TO MAKE
THE ALTAR BREADS.

What from our lot could us entice!
'Tis ours the altar-breads to make
For that tremendous sacrifice
Where Christ is offered for our sake.
Heaven will be here, on sinful earth,
When hid beneath these veils of snow:
And God be here, in a new birth,
Come down to dwell with us below!
No queens are reigning anywhere
In joy as great as ours to-day
Our very work is love and prayer,
And binds our Spouse to us alway.
Earth's highest honors seem as naught,
Beside this service of Heaven's King;
Beside this peace, with blessings fraught
That Jesus sends on dove-like wing.
A holy envy fills our hearts
For this fair work of our delight:
For these small snow-white hosts, whose arts
Shall hide the Lamb of God from sight.
Yet we His brides, His chosen, are;
Our Friend is He, our Spouse is He!
And hosts are we, that He, our Star,
Transforms to light and ecstasy.
The priest's high lot is like our own,
In this our daily work for God.
Transformed by Him, we tread alone
The very path that He once trod.
By prayers, by acts of love divine,
His brave apostles we must aid;
With them our grace we must combine,
And fight their battles unafraid.
God, hid beneath these snowy veils,
Will hide Him, too, our hearts within.
O miracle! our prayer prevails,
With Him, for mercy upon sin.
Our joy, our glory, our delight,
O Jesus! is this work for Thee.
Thy Heaven is these ciboriums bright
Our prayers shall fill with souls for Thee.
November, 1896.