Author Archives: Father Leonard Feeney, M.I.C.M.
When the Angel has blown on his trumpet a rat-a-tat-tat, And the final encounter of armies is finished and fought;
Three soldiers rose up from their tents And went to join their regiments. And one said: “Captain, I report Because I think the war is sport!”
One’s faith has little nightmares It easily survives: — Divorcing lust and Luther, Henry and lots of wives.
One of us must surrender Ere this affair is done. I beg You — for it could not be — That You be not the one.
Think you, if this were I, You would be let to cry? Were it I, for your sake, Think you I would not wake?
There are three persons I admire tremendously and love the most, And these are God, The Father, The Son and The Holy Ghost. I admire them the most because beyond all others they are
May God be kind to captive fish Who dwell in little bowls and wish To swim, and can’t, and have no notion
The night before Our Lord was born Saint Joseph went about forlorn, Knocking at doors from left to right, Knocking at every door in sight,
My meager brightness must I dim: Curtail my scanty skill; My little well, below the brim,
Lest I should ever be mistaken for a mad Manichaean, Who am enamored of realities maybe not three-dimensioned enough, I hereby praise God loudly for all measurements and materials, Foliage, flesh, fabric and fiber, substance and stuff.
If in the sin you now confess There was one tithe of tenderness;
In crocus fashion, sunlight-wise, The Body of Our Lord Slipped through the stone-bound sepulchre, Streamed through the soldier’s sword.
All that enters through my eye My intellect must simplify; For nothing in my mind can be a Guest unless it’s an idea:
My prayers for you, alas, are all Somewhat anthropological. I cannot separate a whole, Dissect a substance and see a soul;
If in future I my lyre Ever from its rack remove, And go plucking with my plectrum Anything I cannot prove,