A scandal is sought in our ranks,
The Enemy desires a reason for his minions
To renew their persecutions of the Faith,
Rarely does he look in vain for willing accomplices:
There are many men who are cruel,
Who are callous, many who torture and murder--
They love not their fellow men.
In one age, they persecute by cross or sword,
In another by disenfranchisement and loss of honor,
Often it is accompanied by rampant despoiling--
Plundering our earthly treasures, pillaging our homes,
At times with subjugation and oppression,
Whether by crown, minaret, or the hammer and sickle--

Dark rumors surface in whispers which
Escape the lips of of the self-styled "street informants,"
A scandal once hidden is now unearthed.
It's been taken by the gutter press and used:
In their hands, it is little more than a cudgel,
Meant to batter, to bludgeon their target.
Soon the mainstream press discovers the secret,
And in their hands it becomes a sword unsheathed,
Swung wildly, still it can be used to smite,
Though emboldened by this weapon they overplay
Their seemingly unstoppable hand--they swing at too
Much--and so themselves are exposed.

Of Truth in all its beauty I am a seeker,
And of knowledge, understanding, and wisdom--
Each of these gifts teach me to judge with equity,
To treat others as being equal to myself.

To each his fair share I pledge to give,
Let me not be known for cheating and stealing,
Nor for taking what is not rightly mine to take--
I will demand nothing I've not earned.

To him who has no voice I lend mine,
For those who have nothing I'll lend my arms--
But I'll not do this at the rich man's expense either:
For he too must be accorded his rights.

Moved by careless action,
Spurred to headlong hast,
Many act without forethought,
They rush to their lives' ends.

Tis better to look judiciously,
And then consider taking the leap,
Caution never fails to protect
Those who plan well ahead.

In a life of hectic activity,
With never a moment's pause--
One of relentless motion--
When will you stop to rest?

It is wise to long remember,
Even as all others forget:
Providence is slow, imperceptible,
But the devil works in haste.

I am ever grateful for hospitality,
But I don't wish to impose on good graces,
Nor to place undue stress on my hosts.
'Tis not my prerogative to do so,
I'll not overburden with my presence--
I've stayed quite late.

Here I stand, no further will I fall,
This level at last I'll maintain,
Even if I cannot advance,
Even as I desire retreat.

Buffeted, battered, and bruised,
By sirens' songs tempted,
Goaded by malicious taunts,
My step scarce does falter.

Lower thy nets first here to the left,
Tonight the fish are in hiding--
Carefully trawl the shallows first:
Why travel far from the land
If the fish swim near to the shore,
Why risk the deep and dark waters?
Haul the nets aboard and then
Inspect their contents for a catch;
There's naught but mud and a piece
Of driftwood coated in sandy silt;
To make things worse for the fishers,
The net has been severely torn.
Row back to the shores, row!
Two sturdy pairs of brothers pull
They strain at the boat's oars
As another stands fore and shouts
His commands to the two men who

A long time ago and in a land far away,
Yet so near and seen afresh in faith each day,
Set first in the intersection of the great cultures,
Where civilizations meet and trade and merge,
In that rebellious backwater territory of old Rome,
Surrounded by crowds yet so abandoned and alone
There died a Man nailed upon a wooded board,
Mocked and torture by that ancient horde.
When Roman military power seemed near its peak,
And Greek philosophy had nothing left to seek,
When Old Law was not enough to prevent death,
An oppressed people waited with baited breath,

Marching orders are handed down,
Each troop is given a uniform--
Standard issue with an ID number--
Every name is replaced with a barcode.

Each is a soldier of an unusual sort,
They're no mean army of men,
They fight in a war without skirmishes,
Their weapons are not meant to kill.

Winter's cold and frosty hand,
Long hast lingered on the land--
Ere a prophet comes at long last,
A prisoner was he to men, alas!
A prisoner to set them free
To follow the man upon a tree.

Soon would come the thaw of spring,
The land once bleak with cold's sting,
Would bloom and blossom and awake,
And old night would be slip away!
From sin's stain the land would be clean,
As colors changed from gray to green.

In the summer's heat and longer days,
Saint Patrick's teaching spreads and stays,
The Church's banner soon would stand,
Where pagan Roman feet never did land!