Tuesday, June 7
Oh wand'ring child, your life, a life's misgivings
From house to house, and down your narrow road
Your family waits, with arms outstretched forgiving
'Tis you, 'tis you must come and share your load.
For off you ran, squand'ring half our fortune
Until there came, a famine in your land
And no one there, would give you cup or portion
You had left the clan which offerd you a hand.
And wrought with pain, at last come to your senses
Back on the 'stead, our servants fare thee well
I'll go back home, and offer to mend thine fences
Though I deserve to share a prison cell.
And home you trod, until a vision in the distance I see
And ran to you, embrace and cut short your apology
I'll hear no talk of how you feel not worthy
For you were dead, but alive you finally be.
Yes I was dead, but you've given life back to me!
The following was also submitted by Fr. Mike. It's the Magnificat set to "The Star of the County Down" which was a favorite at his seminary (and our Dorm Masses). He says this version was inspired by the Mass time--right before lunch.
THE CANTICLE OF CHURNING
My gut cries out like a sufferer of gout that the pain of my heart now burns,
And my spirit moans of the desperate groans that you bring to the stomach that turns. You fixed your sight on the servant's plight, and my hunger you did not spurn,
So from bad to worst shall your name be cursed. Could my world be about to churn?
My heart shall moan of the day I groan.
Let the fires of you acid burn.
As I run down the hall, to the nearest stall
Cause my world is about to churn.
Though I am ill, my God, I feel, that you work great things in me,
And your mercy will last, and so too this be passed to the end of the age to be.
This ivory throne has become my home, and to those who would from me learn,
You will show your might, and relieve my plight, for my world is about to churn.
From the halls of brick gather the pale and sick, not a commode will be left alone.
Let the king beware for your innards tears ev'ry tyrant from his throne.
The hungry poor shall eat no more, of the food that they pass right through;
All the rooms are rank, all the pepto is drank, take a book with you to the lew.
Though my bowels rage from age to age, we remember who holds us fast:
God's mercy must deliver us from the conqueror's crushing gas.
This saving deed so that we may feed is the promise which holds us bound,
'Til the cook and chef can be crushed to death, then the world can be turned around.