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.