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Sunday Sonnet

I have been using two of the great poets of the English language, Protestant variety: Donne and Locke. I have used Belloc, whose sonnet sequences was weaker. And last week I surprised some by quoting Oscar Wilde: he may have been decadent, but he came from a line of Irish faithful.

This is his contemporary and the founder of modern Anglo-Catholicism before becoming Catholic himself. At at time when the Roman Church is broken by scandal, it is good to recall the heights we once had. And that there are faithful, giving their lives for the faith.


Without father, without mother, without descent; having neither beginning of days, nor end of life.

THRICE bless’d are they, who feel their loneliness;
To whom nor voice of friends nor pleasant scene
Brings that on which the sadden’d heart can lean;
Yea, the rich earth, garb’d in her daintiest dress

Of light and joy, doth but the more oppress,
Claiming responsive smiles and rapture high;
Till, sick at heart, beyond the veil they fly,
Seeking His Presence, who alone can bless.

Such, in strange days, the weapons of Heaven’s grace;
When, passing o’er the high-born Hebrew line,
He forms the vessel of His vast design;
Fatherless, homeless, reft of age and place,

Sever’d from earth, and careless of its wreck,
Born through long woe His rare Melchizedek.

John Henry, Cardinal Newman

Pray for our Catholic brothers. They are persecuted. And remember: the known scandal of their apostate priests is probably smaller than the hidden scandal of Hollywood, Media and the corrupt politicians.

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