Feast of the Sacred Heart

Two lights on a lowly altar;

Two snowy cloths for a Feast;

Two vases of dying roses;

The morning comes from the east,

With a gleam for the folds of the vestments

And a grace for the face of the priest.

The sound of a low, sweet whisper

Floats over a little bread,

And trembles around a chalice,

And the priest bows down his head!

O'er a sign of white on the altar —

In the cup — o'er a sign of red.

As red as the red of roses,

As white as the white of snows!

But the red is a red of a surface

Beneath which a God's blood flows;

And the white is the white of a sunlight

Within which a God's flesh glows.

Ah! words of the olden Thursday!

Ye come from the far-away!

Ye bring us the Friday's victim

In His own love's olden way;

In the hand of the priest at the altar

His Heart finds a home each day.

The sight of a Host uplifted!

The silver-sound of a bell!

The gleam of a golden chalice.

Be glad, sad heart!‘ tis well;

He made, and He keeps love's promise,

With thee all days to dwell.

From his hand to his lips that tremble,

From his lips to his heart a-thrill,

Goes the little Host on its love-path,

Still doing the Father's will;

And over the rim of the chalice

The blood flows forth to fill

The heart of the man anointed

With the waves of a wondrous grace;

A silence falls on the altar —

An awe on each bended face —

For the Heart that bled on Calvary

Still beats in the holy place.

The priest comes down to the railing

Where brows are bowed in prayer;

In the tender clasp of his fingers

A Host lies pure and fair,

And the hearts of Christ and the Christian

Meet there — and only there!

Oh! love that is deep and deathless!

Oh! faith that is strong and grand!

Oh! hope that will shine forever,

O'er the wastes of a weary land!

Christ's Heart finds an earthly heaven

In the palm of the priest's pure hand.