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Wednesday, October 29, 2008

St Thomas More- the pleas of the Poor Souls in Purgatory

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. . [O]pen your hearts and have some pity upon us. If you believe not that we need your help, alas the lack of faith. If you believe our need and care not for us, alas the lack of pity. For who so pitieth not us, whom can he pity? If you pity the poor, there is none so poor as we, that have not a bratte [rag] to put on our backs. If you pity the blind, there is none so blind as we, which are here in the dark saving for sights unpleasant and loathsome till some comfort come. If you pity the lame, there is none so lame as we, that neither can creep one foot out of the fire, nor have one hand at liberty to defend our face from the flame. Finally if you pity any man in pain, never knew you pain comparable to ours; whose fire as far passeth in heat all the fires that ever burned upon earth, as the hottest of all those passeth a feigned fire painted on a wall . .

. . Remember our thirst -while you sit and drink; our hunger while you be feasting; our restless watch while you be sleeping; our sore and grievous pain while you be playing; our hot burning fire while you be in pleasure and sporting; so may God make your offspring after remember you; so God keep you hence or not long here; but bring you shortly to that bliss, to which for our Lord's love help you to bring us, and we shall set hand to help you thither to us.

1 comment:

Long-Skirts said...

"If you believe not that we need your help, alas the lack of faith."

YES,

I KNOW

NOVEMBER

Yes, I know November
The tolling of the bell,
The whispers of the suf’ring souls
From mountain top to dell.

The chilly, gray, damp mornings
The rusting of the leaves,
The whispers of the suf'ring souls
Like moans from one who grieves.

And in the windy noon-time
When clouds fight 'gainst sun's might,
The whispers of the suf'ring souls
Cry, "Sanctuary light!"

So 'fore the red-glassed candle,
Compelled, I go to pray,
The whispers of the suf'ring souls
Plead, "Sacrifice today!"

Now, deep, dark sanctuary
Is lit by candle, bold,
The whispers of the suf'ring souls...
"Your prayers are autumn gold!"

So like the leaves of autumn
I fall to kneeling posture,
The whispers of the suf'ring souls
Beg, "Say a Pater Noster!"

The flicker in the red glass
Burns hotter, now, with Creed.
Oh, yes, I know November!
The month of Hope...souls freed!