2 poems this morning,,,

O Lord, we praise Thee, bless Thee, and adore Thee,

O Lord, we praise Thee, bless Thee, and adore Thee,
In thanksgiving bow before Thee.
Thou with Thy body and Thy blood didst nourish
Our weak souls that they may flourish.
O Lord, have mercy!
May Thy body, Lord, born of Mary
That our sins and sorrow did carry,
And Thy blood for us plead in all trial, fear and need:
O Lord, have mercy!

Thy holy body into death was given,
Life to win for us in heaven.
No greater love than this to Thee could bind us;
May this feast thereof remind us!
O Lord, have mercy!
Lord, Thy kindness did so constrain Thee
That Thy blood should bless and sustain me.
All our debt Thou hast paid; peace with God once more is made:
O Lord, have mercy!

May God bestow on us His grace and favor
To please Him with our behavior
And live as brethren here in love and union
Nor repent this blessed Communion!
O Lord, have mercy!
Let not Thy good Spirit forsake us;
Grant that heavenly minded He make us;
Give Thy church, Lord, to see days of peace and unity;
O Lord, have mercy!

Martin Luther

and just had to post this one,,
the other side of priesthood,,,
seeing other die and blessing them,,,

The Ballad Of Father Gilligan,


The old priest Peter Gilligan
 Was weary night and day
 For half his flock were in their beds
 Or under green sods lay.

 Once, while he nodded in a chair
 At the moth-hour of the eve
 Another poor man sent for him,
 And he began to grieve.

 'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
 For people die and die;
 And after cried he, 'God forgive!
 My body spake not I!'

 He knelt, and leaning on the chair
 He prayed and fell asleep;
 And the moth-hour went from the fields,
 And stars began to peep.

 They slowly into millions grew,
 And leaves shook in the wind
 And God covered the world with shade
 And whispered to mankind.

 Upon the time of sparrow chirp
 When the moths came once more,
 The old priest Peter Gilligan
 Stood upright on the floor.

 'Mavrone, mavrone! The man has died
 While I slept in the chair.'
 He roused his horse out of its sleep
 And rode with little care.

 He rode now as he never rode,
 By rocky lane and fen;
 The sick man's wife opened the door,
 'Father! you come again!'

 'And is the poor man dead?' he cried
 'He died an hour ago.'
 The old priest Peter Gilligan
 In grief swayed to and fro.

 'When you were gone, he turned and died,
 As merry as a bird.'
 The old priest Peter Gilligan
 He knelt him at that word.

 'He Who hath made the night of stars
 For souls who tire and bleed,
 Sent one of this great angels down,
 To help me in my need.

 'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
 With planets in His care
 Had pity on the least of things
 Asleep upon a chair.'

william butler yeats,