SSPX grows..........................................

LILIES
OF
THE
FIELD

Who told you that –
It was just pride
To wear the Habit
As His bride?

Who told you that--
The whisperer lied
The Habit draws
All to your side.

Who told you that
Some fashion guide?
Sycophants
Your chic they chide.

Who told you that--
Your trending tried
“To be like us”
Vocations died.

Who told you that –
“Abuse!” they cried
The serpent strikes
All pure deride.

So 60’s religious
A suicide-slide …
The “oppressed” Mother
To Truth did abide.

Cassocks and Habits
God’s grace purified –
And His lilies of the field
Have now multiplied!

Ugly Churches

H/T Eponymous
Flower

The New Cathedral of the Diocese of Crèteil (Paris): "A
Cathedral for the World of Today"

DISCO-DECAYED

Disco-decayed
They cancelled all color
Sanctuaries stripped
First Communions were duller.

No crinoline whites
Pale hues they stressed
Only pearled-Pharisees
Are ever so dressed.

Roses, carnations,
Flowers, all manners
Left just to wither
Gainst assertive beige banners.

Pillars of marble
Corinthian styles
They decided to paint
Like pink bathroom tiles.

Cassocks of red
Habits blue, white,
Robes of distinction
Extinct over night.

Missals with pages
Embossed in gloss-gold
Latin in tint
English-black to behold.

Even the ribbons
To mark scriptural prayers
Were of green, yellow, silvers
So to keep us from errors.

The soft votive flames
The red opaque glass
Gave an aura of stillness
Like time could not pass.

Yet time it passed
Vividness drained
And populations without color
Cannot be sustained.

So those underground
With red blood in blue veins
Birthed knowledge, the arts
Great virtues they’ve gained.

They did not decay
God’s colors kept green
For the day up above
Once again to be seen.

Except for those beige
Banner-like-blind
Gray fertility fades
In their black open minds.

Franciscans

Sr. Mary Bernard's new "nick-name" is Sr. Mary "Burn-the-Yard" as she was in charge of emptying the Thurible after Mass and dropped hot charcoals on the grass which caught fire on the dry hot Kansas City, MO grass. She is her mother's daughter! "Too hot, call the po-leece and the fiah-man!":

Took Sr. Mary "Burn-the-Yard" to get a Dr. Pepper at a local Kansas City, MO Gas station. She LOVES Dr. Pepper and while paying for the soda someone asked her, "Who IS you?" The dear, Gas staiton attendant screamed at the other patron, "Hey! She be fo real!! Shut yo mouth!! She Jesus's Bride!!" Out of the mouth of babes!!

St. Mary's Assumption

AUGUST’S
EVE

In the gloaming

Afterglow

The sanctuary’s

State

Displays a splendor

August

From mid-month

Into late.

Where brushed-gold

Baldechino

Dissolves to

Honey yellows

Rust pillars’ veined

In cream and white

Together meld

And mellows.

The beryl blues

Shift into hues

Dark glassed

But not dejected

While cardinal-prime

Burgundy blood of the vine

Rages scarlet

As the serpent’s rejected.

Hideous Hierarchy

THE

SCOURGE

“Cowards

Don’t have

The courage

Of a Thrush”

All they can do

Is make nice

And then

Blush

Except

When mothers

In the Traditional

Niche

Rage

Against the age

Then they

Get on their bitch -

“Cowards

Don’t have

The courage

Of a Thrush”

Only scourged Priests

Of The Vine

Will entwine them

And crush!

THE Mass

DAMN THE TORPEDOES...

Nowhere to kneel
No Tabernacle
No candle red
Just marble crackle

A sepulchre
Deathly white
To help good souls
Despair, take flight

That's WHAT they want
That is their plan
Then mock, "You dis -
obedient man!"

But in the depths
Of doctrine deep
Sails the Ship
That will not sleep

Full of disobedient
Sheep
Obeying Christ
In priests that keep

The Barque of Peter
On its course
Though her bowels be bricked
By a sinister source

Then damn the torpedoes
Tridentine-led
Will blast through the block
Full speed ahead

No sepulchre whites
Disobedience, despairs --
Only seas of gold Masses
By an Archbishop's Peres!

GRAND ERRANTHOOD

CASH
COWS

“A less crunchy technique”
Oh, how humane
Like the Germans who gassed
So no one felt pain.

Marketable, intact
Commodities futures
A little blood spilled?
Sew her up with some sutures

And make sure you give her
That honeymoon stitch
To fulfill a man’s dream
As he uses her niche.

Then we’ll take her back
Clean her out before lunch
Harvest her gold
And our cow’s cache we won’t crunch.

Maniturgia

THE
MANITURGIA

Linen-wrapped hands
Cloth-wrapped in tomb
First signs of life
Wrapped in the womb.

Hidden, veiled,
Cloaked away
Sacredness
Gold in gray.

Bursting bright
From slate shroud cloud
Gilded sun
Brilliant, proud.

Fingers anointed
Then set free
As from her womb then tomb
For thee.

The Bread of Angels
From His wheat
Seeds sown deep
In loam and peat.

Forever his fingers
Consecrating
Hidden Jesus
Elevating.

The maniturgia,
Now tucked away
To wait for mother’s
Deathly day

When in my coffin,
Hopefully shrived,
My linen-wrapped hands
When I have died

Will reach out begging,
Though I am least,
Lord have mercy
My son’s a Priest!!