Francis Carlin

Pax

Our Father Who, in clay

From Eden, set that root

Through which to Thee we may

Yield goodly deeds as fruit

Of faith man offers up

With Sacrificial Cup:

We hail Thee, One of Three,

Sole Power Whose purpose sealed

Thy Word, the Peace Decree,

Through Whom Thou wert revealed;

O Sire of Shepherd, yea,

Of fold, and flock astray!

And Thou, Peace Prince, in Whom

Both King and Priest are blent;

Whose Lateran Upper Room

First throned Thy Sacrament—

Thyself - Whose Vatican

Is now the heart of man:

We hall Thee Christ, withal,

Who left in Peter's care

Thy Keys Pontifical;

O Thou Who didst not spare

That very Self of Thine

Concealed in Bread and Wine!

Thou, too, O Living Light

In Glory's vesture gold,

Whose pallium (as white

As Lamb in Heaven's Fold)

Binds Thee, with crosiered Son

And Shepherd's Sire, as One:

We hail Thee, lingering Dove,

At hover in the dome

Rock pillared; Thou above

The cathedra of Rome,

O Truth Who may but rest

Within the Spouse's breast!

Thou Hidden All Whom speech

Of creature may not name

In order, since that Each

In glory is the same;

O Sacred, Triple Crowned

Supremacy profound!

On this Thy Sabbath feast,

Thrice Holy, do Thou deign

To bless our Sovereign Priest

So that, through him, his reign

May win that peace but won

Through Mercy's benison.

Even as Nature's green

Doth shine with hope in Thee—

Thy Vicaress, the Queen

Of that Theocracy

Which Thou dost rule through her

Whose edicts may not err—

So shine the emerald beams

Of hope from Peter's gem,

O Thou Whose ruby gleams

With rays of love on them:

Thy Vicar, Holiness,

And Beauty's Vicaress!

Hail, Triarchy! Immerse

Thy blessed olive bough

In rain bow, and asperse

Souls militant whom Thou

Dost ever lead afield

Through him who may not yield;

Yea, even as he at Mass

Sends forth the pax of Christ

So that the kiss may pass

To Redeemed from Sacrificed,

May fostering Pius thus

Pass on Thy peace to us

And if Thy Justice still

Wouldst chasten home and mart

With sword, deign Thou to will

Tranquillity of heart

To her whose hallowed blade

Is ever drawn in aid

Of our dread battlefare.

Ah! then her children, far

Yet ever near, would share

That peace which Michael's War

Broke not in Heaven - that great

True peace of soul and State.

Grant such, O Trinal Mace,

Through Thy Vicegerent's See

To men in whom Thy grace

Prompts each, as child, to plea:

O Father, Sanctifier

And Saviour - Triune Sire!

Deliver us from ill,

If not from war and strife

Permitted here until,

With branch from Tree of Life,

Thy Dove wings o'er the dark

Of doom to Peter's Ark.

Lead Thou, Paternal Hand

In Whom Thy peoples trust,

All hearts in every land

From bonds, and ways unjust.

Yea, draw by Adam's cords,

Tiaraed Lord of Lords,

Our souls to peace of Heaven

Who wait the Sign of Love

In benediction given

From Balcony Above;

Thou Crosier, Sceptre, Rod,

August Almighty God!