A PROFILE OF COURAGE

Eugenio Pacelli is consecrated a bishop,

  In Italy’s historic city of Rome,

But he is flung like a javelin into Germany,

  And Munich is now his home;

Egelhofer sends Commander Seiler

  On a mission filled with human hate,

The truth is Mr. E. thirsts for blood,

  And Pacelli he wishes to assassinate;

Commander Seiler and his gang selfishly strut

  To the bishop’s place of residence,

They’re planning a brash bold attack,

  Plotting his murder with confidence;

They threaten the servant with weapons,

  So she reluctantly lets them in,

Now they await the bishop’s return,

  Thinking victory they will win.

Seiler stands ready at the door,

  With his thugs in a semicircle around,

Armed with loaded guns and grenades,

  Their faces are rather frowned;

When the bishop opens the door,

  Seiler points a pistol at his pectoral cross,

Yet Pacelli fearlessly stands his ground,

  And shows him who is boss;

The holy bishop speaks as soft as an abbot,

  Or even a most prayerful friar,

But his courageous words rip into them,

  Like relentless machine gun fire;

The bishop’s eyes are two spear tips,

  That pierce right through their souls,

And in a daze they gape back at him,

  As motionless as telephone poles.

With empty hands the would-be assassins

  Return to Egelhofer the Extreme,

To his surprise, Pacelli still lives,

  And in the Munich diocese reigns supreme;

The bishop bravely swatted their plans,

  As if they were harmless flies,

Never before had they looked at a priest

  With such powerful paralyzing eyes;

During the Second World War,

  He saved countless lives from Nazi extermination,

And many Jewish people commended him,

  For his covert operation;

This lean, stately figure ran the Church,

  Though he never sought out fame,

He is better known as Pope Pius,

  The Twelfth who has held that name.

TO ST. FAUSTINA

You, the mystical    

missionary of mercy,        

are honored as        

the first saint        

of the Great Jubilee,        

the first saint        

of the new millennium;    

you serenely smile        

as the blessed blood        

and the blessed water        

kiss and mingle    

in the infinite ocean        

of Divine Mercy;    

you see the barque    

of St. Peter as it    

faithfully floats on     

the beautiful waves,        

protected from the    

storm winds of worry,    

free from all fear;    

like the warm welcoming    

arms of the Bernini Colonnade,        

Divine Mercy is ready to    

earnestly embrace every    

hardened sinner who            

hungers for healing and    

thirsts for generous love:    

Jezu ufam Tobie!

THE MIRACLE OF THE SUN

Like Rosary beads dipped in holy water,

  Raindrops are falling from the sky,

Seventy thousand people in the roaring rain

  Who would really rather be dry;

The valley of the Cova da Iria is a black

  Blanket of umbrellas and hats,

And the drenched, dripping crowd is like

  A muddy mob of very curious cats;

Three children kneel before an outdoor altar

  As they await the promised sign,

And non-believers mockingly joke that

  The children are just tipsy with wine;

The riotous rain finally stops at noon,

  As the weather is forced to succumb,

But noon passes, and Heaven is late,

  So perhaps no miracle will come.

But then a marvelous, mystical stillness and quiet

  Come over this blessed place,

All laughter subsides and totally vanishes,

  Without even the slightest trace;

Our Lady appears to all the three children,

  Wearing garments dazzlingly white,

Her shape is graceful and delicate,

  And her clothing is brighter than light;

Her eyes are like sparkling jewels,

  And her sweet voice makes their hearts sing,

Her face is most exquisitely beautiful,

  And she is a treasure of the great King;

But after hours and hours of waiting,

  The crowd sees nothing at all,

If a Heavenly sign they don’t get,

  Then perhaps the children they’ll maul.

After speaking to the three young children,

  Our Lady casts a glance up above,

She gently points upwards to Heaven,

  With a heart filled with mercy and love;

Then Lucia quickly points at the sky,

  And tells everyone to look at the sun,

They only see a thick cloudy darkness,

  So their expectations are little or none;

But through the clouds the sun is slicing,

  And it’s spinning like a circular saw,

At this very strange and unnatural sight,

  The crowd’s nerves really feel raw;

The sun is like a gyrating sparkler,

  With sizzling sparks flitting about,

It is held by God’s invisible hand,

  He is mighty -- of this there is no doubt.

Then the fickle sun changes colors,

  And the many spectators reflect its glow,

The chamelionic sun lights up sky and land,

  Putting on an impressive show;

First the sun turns a stunning silver,

  And this is followed by a brilliant blue,

Then it turns a glorious, gleaming gold,

  Followed by a most radiant red hue;

Every so often there are stellar explosions,

  With blinding bursts of light,

The people are starting to tremble,

  And are wondering if they should take flight;

They stare at the sun for a very long time,

  Yet none of them hurt their eyes,

The whole crowd gapes in surreal wonder,

  Observing this sign in the skies.

But suddenly unbolted from the wall of clouds,

  The sun moves about in the sky,

It looks like it’s riding on a roller coaster,

  On invisible tracks way up high;

The blazing orb dances in a fiery frenzy,

  Although there’s not a lot of wind,

And glacial hearts are melting below,

  Of those who have seriously sinned;

But now, like a menacing molten meteor,

  The sun falls down towards the Earth,

Thousands of people cry out in terror,

  Not experiencing any kind of mirth;

Alarmed atheists pray Our Fathers,

  As their hearts’ flag of surrender is unfurled,

And agnostics stagger and stumble for cover,

  Fearing it’s the end of the world.

Approaching at a frightful velocity,

  The sun gradually drinks the dark sky,

As the speeding star draws ever nearer,

  The people are preparing to die;

The red giant now fills the heavens,

  And the situation is exceedingly dire,

The surface of the sun is a seething solar ocean

  Of fantastical flaming fire;

But all this time the three good children

  Have visions from the Heavenly realm,

They experience ecstatic joy and peace,

  Since the good God is at the helm;

Then, in the twinkling of an eye,

  The crowd looks up through happy tears,

They’re stunned because their nightmarish vision

  Very suddenly disappears.

Just ten minutes earlier, the spectators in the

  Cova were standing in the mire,

But now, in a flash, it is completely dry --

  Faster than anyone could ever desire;

Ten miraculous minutes…

  Have forever softened many thousands of souls,

Their lives are totally transformed,

  And they no longer seek secular goals;

October 13, 1917…

  Will be remembered throughout all of history,

Though for skeptics who read of Fatima,

  This day may always be a mystery;

Many atheists and agnostics saw a miracle

  That made them turn quite pale,

So know that this story happened,

  And it is not some silly fairy tale.

TO ST. THERESE OF LISIEUX

My sweet Little Flower,   

your humble acts of charity   

are like tiny mustard seeds,    

yet when they’re poured out    

upon the fruitful fields of Heaven    

by the Father’s faithful fingers,    

they form a mountain of love    

that would gracefully tower    

over the mighty Everest;    

you stand in great strength,    

as the missionary of missionaries,    

in the gentle presence of    

the Virgin of virgins,    

the Mystical Rose    

of incomparable beauty,    

and your precious seeds of prayer    

are cultivated with care by the    

ever patient Divine Gardener,    

nourished by His living water,    

producing a bountiful harvest of    

salvation in our suffering world;    

above the clouds of worry,    

your cheerful sky is always blue --    

help me to follow your example    

so that my soul too may sing    

those heartfelt words of wisdom:    

“My vocation is love!”

THE SAINTLY COUPLE

Behold the Little Flower’s mom and dad,

They pray for parents about to go mad.

The Martin family had five sweet girls,

So their devout home was filled with French curls;

Louis and Zelie were full of great love,

They taught their daughters the path of The Dove;

With their “little queen” they had lots of fun,

And each of their girls became a young nun;

When Louis and Zelie finally died,

Heaven’s beautiful doors opened real wide.

So parents that want to pull out their hair

Should ask them for help, for they really care.

TO ST. BERNADETTE OF LOURDES

Your magnificent story I will tell:

The wondrous Miracle of Massabielle;

Our Lady came in breathtaking beauty,

And she knew that you would do your duty;

You came before her as God’s little child,

And looking down on you, she warmly smiled;

She gently asked you to dig in the ground,

And there spring waters were suddenly found;

Cripples bathed in the stream with salty tears,

And walked away whole without any fears;

Then hardened hearts started to melt,

And before the good God they humbly knelt.

TO OUR LADY OF LOURDES

Your merciful and majestic eyes

   are dazzlingly modest,

Sparkling like radiant jewels

   of kindness and compassion;

Your serene smile swiftly

   steals my humble heart,

As you point me towards the

   path that leads to Jesus;

Your majestic mantle and sky-blue

   sash dance joyfully in the breeze,

Reflecting the mildness and the

   gentleness of the good God;

Your ladylike lips whisper    

   words of wisdom

That split the air like

   atomic loving lightning;

Your sweet, saintly actions

   ripple through the universe,

Like warm, welcoming waves

   of heavenly peace.

TO ST. JOHN VIANNEY

As a soldier you were really quite inept,

  And as a student you weren’t much,

Although the seminary gave you a chance,

  It seemed holy orders you’d never touch;

But when the good God takes charge,

  There’s nothing that He cannot do,

So through the intercession of Philomena,

  Grace most bountifully fell on you.

Sent to a corrupt village named Ars,

  You woke it up with fiery preaching,

People were flabbergasted by your words

  And threatened by your priestly teaching;

Yet in the little box of the confessional,

  You won a victory over selfish hearts,

Though the devil anxiously pursued you,

   God extinguished all his flaming darts.

So many made pilgrimages to see you,

  And confession lines were terribly long,

But through God’s grace you read their souls,

  Bringing hope to many in the throng;

Thus the devil grew angrier and angrier,

  That’s why the beast ranted and raved,

Still you won over many many souls,

  In God’s mercy they were finally saved.

TO SAN PADRE JUNIPERO SERRA

Why do some seek to erase

You from history’s chalkboard?

Why do they wish to cancel out

Your love for Native Americans?

In these deeply distressing times,

The Franciscan Way must lead:

Love must conquer all hatred,

Pardon must heal all injuries,

Faith must replace all doubt,

Hope must cast out all despair,

When Light scatters the darkness,

It is then that freedom rings.

TO ST. LOUIS DE MONTFORT

You are a man in love,    

oh so deeply in love    

with Our Lady,    

so with strength    

and with courage    

as a knight of Christ,    

you cavalierly show us    

the short way,    

the easy way,    

to the Queen of All Hearts;    

as we follow the illustrious example    

of John Paul the Great    

and mild Mother Teresa,    

you very confidently lead us        

to the Blessed Virgin        

so that she might    

graciously guide us to  

the Babe of Bethlehem;    

the jealous Jansenists,    

irked by your missionary success,        

perniciously plot against you,        

and you are banished --     

but the flames of divine love,        

like tongues of fire,        

sweetly sweep throughout France    

in the strong driving wind    

of the serene Spirit;

even now in the new millenium    

our lives continue to be    

refreshed and renewed    

by this burning blaze         

as we make our consecration        

to Jesus through Mary:     

totus tuus.

TO ST. FRANCIS DE SALES

Born in the breathtaking majesty of the Alps,

you became the Bishop of Geneva most brave;

You fought bloodless battles against the Calvinists,

and your gentle eloquence many souls did save.

Others preached with a barrel full of vinegar,

and for their listeners this wasn’t at all funny;

But you had the sense to sweeten your sermons

with the most delightful and delicious honey.

In your classic book you show us, the laity,

how to make our ordinary lives a success;

Teaching us to find God in the present moment,

our worried minds are relieved of great stress.

TO ST. PHILIP NERI

Your happy heart desired to go abroad,

  On a mission to the exotic Far East;

Where you might convert lots of souls,

  And become a holy Jesuit priest.

But as a merry man with natural goodness,

  You were drawn by God to Rome;

You had no money and you had no plan,

  Yet the Eternal City became your home.

With Socratic discussions on street corners,

  You most pleasantly evangelized;

Yet you did it in such a fun-loving way,

  That the people never felt chastised.

One Pentecost something special happened --

  You felt the peace of The Dove;

When a globe of fire entered your mouth,

  You almost died of ecstatic love.

You inspired many in the confessional,

  So that the truth they understood,

And the people always heard you saying,

  “When shall we begin to do good?”

OUR LADY OF DIVINE MERCY

Trembling, I hid in your mantle, protected

  From the dark night of unknowing;

You guided me up the steep, perilous path,

  Towards the sparkling, starry heavens.

The demonic winds gusted, and with

  Frightful ferocity thunder shook the air;

Serpentine lightning darted in the sky, and

  Lava streams slithered down the slopes.

But then the Sun of God dazzlingly dawned,

  And He put an end to the dark night;

Beams of bright light, both red and white,

  Streamed soothingly into my soul.

Atop the summit, you took my hand,

  And together we flew into the Light;

We laughed like merry little children,

  Soaking in the sunshine of pure Mercy.

TO ST. TERESA OF AVILA

As a strong spiritual mother,

You reliably and respectably

Reformed the Carmelite order,

And your holy friendship

With St. John of the Cross

Helped your soul spiral upwards

Towards the Heavenly Kingdom;

Then, you closed your eyes and

Your spirit penetrated into the heart

Of the Interior Castle of prayer,

And there, during the dark night,

You discovered the true Light.

TO ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS

A mystical priest, you are paradoxical:

Hated, you encountered Love,

Suffering, you experienced joy,

In trouble, you found peace,

Isolated, you surrendered in patience,

Maltreated, you felt kindness,

Kidnapped, you were generous,

Abandoned, you kept faith,

Abused, you replied with mildness,

Chaste, you were in ecstasy,

Unknown, you became famous,

Imprisoned, you found freedom,

In the dark night, you discovered Light.

TO SAN JUAN DIEGO

Humility was your middle name,

So at Tepeyac to you she came;

You really didn’t know what to say,

Your only thought was to stop and pray;

You became Our Lady’s holy slave,

Always trustworthy, and very brave;

You saw sweet roses out of season,

The Virgin gave them for a reason;

Then you brought them to the bishop’s place,

The people filled with God’s dazzling grace;

As at your tilma everyone gazed,

The most wondrous sign left all amazed.

TO ST. THOMAS MORE

You were the Lord High Chancellor

  Under the infamous Henry the Eight,

At first you tasted the king’s friendship,

  But later on the sovereign’s hate;

You were a right honorable gentleman,

  With an intellectually sharp mind,

With courage you stood against the crown,

  For, sadly, it was spiritually blind;

So you were put in the Tower of London,

  A place that vile criminals dreaded,

You faithfully served the good God first,

  Thus, the monarch had you beheaded;

In this world, you bravely battled for truth,

  The people, you’d never mislead ‘em,

Now from Heaven you pray for us all,

  As the patron of religious freedom.

TO ST. CATHERINE OF SIENA

Inspired by the writing of this great saint

You stand atop a holy bridge,

A bridge that has several levels,

Like the historic Ponte Vecchio,

And the waves of the worldly waters

Are swarming with sea demons who

Obsessively seek souls to rip open

With their blade-like bloody teeth,

And their cold cadaverous claws,

To torture them in The Endless Death;

But some souls, through God’s grace, 

Cling to the edge of the first level

Of the bridge, dripping wet and

Shivering, terrified of going to hell,

So they clutch tightly to the bridge,

Fearing that they will fall back into

The turbulent black river of doom;

Other souls, through God’s strength, 

Climb up higher to the second level

Where they are safe from the evil

Threat below, in a place of serene

Consolation, where happiness can

Finally reign in their grateful hearts;

However, there are still others who

Through your passionate prayers 

And through total surrender

To Jesus’ most Holy Cross,

Climb to the top of the bridge,

And there -- yes, there! -- they are

Pierced by the overwhelming beauty

Of the magnificent heavenly realm,

Where Jesus’ peace surrounds them, 

Where Jesus’ joy enthralls them, 

Where Jesus’ love embraces them.

THE HOLY SPIRIT

You, the holy fire

That purifies my soul,

The Holy Dove of

Divine Mercy,

Spiral downwards

And inflame my

Innermost being,

Burning away 

All affection for sin,

Freeing the wings

Of my heart so that

I can spiral upwards

With you to Heaven,

And find union with

Divine Love.

TO SANT' ANGELA DI FOLIGNO

Forty years in pursuit of 

Wealth and worldly respect,

Before you realized

It was all totally worthless;

But you made up for lost time

As the Wonder Counselor

Graciously removed the

Dead weight out of your life

So that you would be free,

Free to follow Him forever;

You generously gave away

Almost all you owned,

And Jesus sweetly filled you

With the fruit of the Spirit;

Like Augustine, too late

Did you know Him, but

Thanks to The Divine Mercy,

It’s never, ever too late

To finally find The Good,

To finally find The True,

To finally find The Beautiful:

God is love.