MORAL OF THE GOLDEN CIBORTUM.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume IV, Issue 195, 22 December 1876, Page 6

MORAL OF THE GOLDEN CIBORTUM.

BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY IN THE AYE MABIA. Once in dark and troubled days When France -was filled with woe, And sacrilegious hands, blood stained., The holiest of spots prof aned, And laid the altars low ; A saintly cure, full of fear, His trembling taper lit, And drew the Sacred Host divine (Alone at midnight) from Its shrine Where angels worshipped it. And in a glass ciborium, An humble crystal vase, With reverential hands concealed The hidden God ; then safely sealed The fragile resting-place. Deep in a dark sequestered nook Behind the chapel gray, The holy priest in grief profound, Buried the Treasure in the ground, And went in tears, away. The days rolled on ; and with them fled The clouds of sin and sorrow; On desecrated altars shone The light of Peace; a roseate dawn Bespoke a bright to-morrow. Then stole the humble cure forth, With heaven in his eyes, And, where the grass grew thick and tall, Concealed behind the old church wall, He sought his buried Prize. With eager, trembling hands he casts The precious earth about ; The joyous tears run down his face — He stoops above the holy place — And draws the Treasure out. Oh ! moving miracle of love ! (Praise to the Holy Ghost !) The glass ciborium of old Is changed to one of shining gold And blood-red is the Most ! The living touch of Christ's pure Flesh Hath wrought this marvel strange ! Oh ! come, ray soul, and humbly bow Before thy God, and weep that thou Hast felt no kindred change. How oft thy heart hath been a closed Ciborium wherein reposed The same Almighty Lord ; Alas ! poor thing, as frail and weak As was that crystal cup antique That held th' Incarnate Word. And have I carried fire here Deep in my frozen breast, Nor felt my garments burn and glow ? — Ah ! let it be no longer so, My sweet, celestial Guest! Give me a faith so strong and fresh That at the touch of Thy pure Flesh, My soul may be transformed; My heart no longer cold and numb, Cnanged to a fair ciborium By Thy dear Presence warmed ! And when Thy mighty Hand shall snatch My asbes from the mould, Ah ! may the Sacred Host outshine From this glad jisen heart of mine, And change its dust to gold !