A Christmas Poem by the English Martyr Fr. Robert Southwell - Printable Version +- The Catacombs (https://thecatacombs.org) +-- Forum: Repository (https://thecatacombs.org/forumdisplay.php?fid=10) +--- Forum: The Liturgical Year (https://thecatacombs.org/forumdisplay.php?fid=72) +---- Forum: Christmas (https://thecatacombs.org/forumdisplay.php?fid=74) +---- Thread: A Christmas Poem by the English Martyr Fr. Robert Southwell (/showthread.php?tid=5804) |
A Christmas Poem by the English Martyr Fr. Robert Southwell - Stone - 12-29-2023 Taken from here [slightly adapted]. Many people do not know that this illustrious English martyr, killed during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, was also a poet. He was 33 years of age and had undergone severe torture ten times, and he said at his trial he would rather have endured ten executions. Finally he was executed – by hanging, drawing and quartering - for the treason of administering the Sacraments in England.
Many believe he had an influence on his contemporaries Thomas Nashe, Thomas Lodge, and William Shakespeare. Here is one of his beautiful Christmas poem. A Child My Choice
by Robert Southwell Let folly praise what fancy loves, I praise and love that Child Whose heart no thought, whose tongue no word, whose hand no deed defiled. I praise Him most, I love Him best, all praise and love is His; While Him I love, in Him I live, and cannot live amiss. Love’s sweetest mark, laud’s highest theme, man’s most desired light, To love Him life, to leave Him death, to live in Him delight. He mine by gift, I His by debt, thus each to other due; First friend He was, best friend He is, all times will try Him true. Though young, yet wise; though small, yet strong; though man, yet God He is: As wise, He knows; as strong, He can; as God, He loves to bless. His knowledge rules, His strength defends, His love doth cherish all; His birth our joy, His life our light, His death our end of thrall. Alas! He weeps, He sighs, He pants, yet do His angels sing; Out of His tears, His sighs and throbs, doth bud a joyful spring. Almighty Babe, whose tender arms can force all foes to fly, Correct my faults, protect my life, direct me when I die! |