POEMS
The following two poems and their commentary come from a book entitled: The Poetry of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. The first poem that she wrote was entitled CANTICLE TO OBTAIN THE CANONIZATION OF THE VENERABLE JOAN OF ARC, which was written May 8, 1894.
In passing, we need to mention the historical context of this composition. On January 27, 1894, Pope Leo XIII authorized the introduction of Joan of Arc's cause for beatification, in virtue of which she received the title, "Venerable." From then on it was permitted to "honor her and pray to her publicly," as the Lisieux newspaper Le Normandy explained on January 30.
In the weeks that followed, Thérèse's uncle, Isiodore Guérin, devoted several articles to this event. From the outset he showed his colors: "God raised her up to show through her weakness the greatness of His power and so to confound the pride of man." (Joan of Arc, Le Normandy, 2/3/1894).
A commission presided over by Henri Wallon soon drafted a bill in the National Assembly proposing that May 8th be celebrated annually as a national holiday of "patriotism" to honor Joan of Arc. Monsieur Guérin saw this chiefly as a scheme of the Freemasons to take this French heroine back into their camp and to "secularize" her. (Le Normandy, 5/5/1894).
If joy at Joan's rising glory was great all across France, Lisieux shared in it in a special way. In effect, the town represented Joan's "blood money" : "It was at Orleans that she carried off one of her most brilliant successes, it was at Rouen where she was burned, and Lisieux was the price paid for her life." (I. Guérin). The allusion to Judas's betrayal of Jesus was clear. But here the traitor was the Bishop, Pierre Cauchon, who was made bishop of Lisieux in 1432, which was of less importance than his old bishopric of Beauvais, in return for "services rendered" to the English. So on May 8th 1894, "a precious flag of the glorious Liberatrix" was placed in the chapel built by Cauchon in the apse of the cathedral of Saint Peter right where he was buried. This was the very chapel where Thérèse, as a girl, had attended daily Mass.
The pastor of Saint Peter's set up a committee of young women to make preparations for the celebration on May 8th, 1894. Céline Martin, Saint Thérèse's sister, was one of its most active members. With Marie Guérin and other friends, she sewed "twelve great white banners strewn with fleurs-de-lis. Each banner was twenty one feet long." (Letter from Marie Guérin to Mme. Le Néele, May 1894)
Le Normandy wrote that the holiday, "as patriotic as religious, promises to be particularly touching. The church will be brilliantly lighted" (5/1/1894). Five thousand people jammed into the cathedral. The atmosphere was more like a joyful village fair than a religious ceremony. Le Normandy's chronicler with the sharp pen was hard put to control his displeasure. ("The Festivities for Joan of Arc," 5/12/1894, article signed "I.G.")
We find varied nuances of this enthusiasm - with its ambivalent causes and effects - to a different degree in the titles Thérèse used for the original copy of her canticle: "A French Soldier, Defender of the Church, Admirer of Joan of Arc." Thérèse dedicated her poem to her sister, the "gallant knight C. Martin."
(Melody: "Pitié, mon Dieu")
CANTICLE TO OBTAIN THE CANONIZATION OF THE VENERABLE JOAN OF ARC
1 God of hosts, the whole Church
Soon wishes to honor at the altar
A martyr, a warrior virgin,
Whose sweet name resounds in Heaven.
Refr.1 Refrain
By Your power,
O King of Heaven,
Give to Joan of France >
The halo and the altar. > Repeat
2 A conqueror for guilty France
No, that is not the object of her desire.
Joan alone is capable of saving it.
All heroes weigh less than a martyr!
3 Lord, Joan is Your splendid work,
A heart of fire, a warrior's soul:
You gave them to the timid virgin
Whom You wished to crown with laurels.
4 In her humble meadow Joan heard
Voices from Heaven calling her into combat.
She left to save her country.
The sweet child commanded the army.
5 She won over the souls of proud warriors
The Divine luster of Heaven's messenger,
Her pure gaze, her fiery words
Were able to make bold brows give way....
6 By a prodigy unique in history,
People then saw a trembling monarch
Regain his crown and his glory
By means of a child's weak arm.
7 It is not Joan's victories
We wish to celebrate this day.
My God, we know her true glories
Are her virtues, her love.
8 By fighting, Joan saved France.
But her great virtues
Had to be marked with the seal of suffering,
With the divine seal of Jesus her Spouse!
9 Sacrificing her life at the stake,
Joan heard the voice of the Blessed.
She left this exile for her homeland.
The savior Angel re-ascended into Heaven!...
10 Joan, you are our only hope.
From high in the Heavens, deign to hear our voices.
Come down to us, come convert France.
Come save her a second time.
Refr. 2 Refrain
By the power
Of the Victorious God
Save, save France >
Angel Liberator!... > repeat
11 Chasing the English out of all France,
Daughter of God, how beautiful were your steps!
But remember that in the days of your childhood
You tended only weak lambs...
Refr. 3 Refrain
Take up the defense
Of the powerless
Preserve innocence >
In the souls of children. > repeat
12 Sweet martyr, our monasteries are yours.
You know well that virgins are your sisters,
And like you the object of their prayers
Is to see God reign in every heart.
Refr. 4 Refrain
To save souls
Is their desire.
Ah! Give them your fire >
Of apostle and martyr! > repeat
13 Fear will be banished from every heart
When we shall see the Church crown
The pure brow of Joan our Saint,
And then we shall be able to sing:
Refr. 5 Refrain
Our hope
Rests in you,
Saint Joan of France, >
Pray, pray for us! > repeat
The circumstances behind Thérèse's second poem are interesting as well as painful. For years an impostor, Leo Taxil, had contrived a imaginary person named "Diana Vaughon," and circulated a false story that she had converted from Satanism and Freemasonry to Catholicism.
Thérèse and the Carmelites of Lisieux, like most French Catholics, were completely taken in by this story. Thérèse was especially impressed that this conversion had taken place through the intercession of Joan of Arc. She even wrote a short play about it, entitled THE TRIUMPH OF HUMILITY, in which she showed that the main weapon to defeat Satan is humility.
Mother Agnes also asked Thérèse to write a poem for "Diana," but the inspiration would not come. Instead, Thérèse sent "Diana" a photograph. The previous year Thérèse had written a play entitled, JOAN OF ARC ACCOMPLISHING HER MISSION and this photograph was taken at that time. It shows Thérèse in costume portraying an imprisoned Joan in chains and her sister Céline as Saint Catherine who was comforting Joan. An enlargement of this photo was used as a backdrop at a well-orchestrated press conference in the heart of Paris, when Leo Taxil on the night of April 19, 1897, revealed to more than four hundred people that he himself was "Diana Vaughan."
He did this disgraceful farce to embarrass the Holy See because it was encouraging devotion to the real Joan. He portrayed "Diana" as "a new Joan of Arc" and used Joan's name and her mission to deceive French Catholics. A few days later the newspaper Le Normandy described how Taxil had chosen this photo to make fun of devotion to Joan of Arc. This betrayal of Joan wounded Thérèse too because it was her own photo of Joan as prisoner that had been jeered at that night.
Thus in May of 1897, Thérèse felt the need to rediscover the mystery of Joan of Arc, as if to identify with Joan in the passion she herself was going through and wrote the poem entitled: TO JOAN OF ARC. At the time Thérèse was in great pain from and dying of tuberculosis. It was not in victory and glory that Joan was fulfilled, but in the "dungeon" and in "betrayal," where she identified with Jesus. And He, by His death, gives every suffering its "charm." Thérèse also felt she was "at the bottom of a black dungeon, laden with heavy chains" in her trial of faith. She was drinking "the bitter cup of the Beloved" in her illness. Thérèse was deeply humiliated at the very time she was struggling in her trial of faith and in her illness. There are some sufferings so deep that we have to bear them alone....To us she also seems "more radiant and more beautiful in her dark prison."
TO JOAN OF ARC
When the Lord God of hosts gave you the victory,
You drove out the foreigner and had the king crowned.
Joan, your name became renowned in history.
Our greatest conquerors paled before you.
But that was only a fleeting glory.
Your name needed a Saint's halo.
So the Beloved offered you His bitter cup,
And, like Him, you were spurned by men.
At the bottom of a black dungeon, laden with heavy chains,
The cruel foreigner filled you with grief.
Not one of your friends took part in your pain.
Not one came forward to wipe your tears.
Joan, in your dark prison you seem to me
More radiant, more beautiful than at your King's coronation.
This heavenly reflection of eternal glory,
Who then brought it upon you? It was betrayal.
Ah! If the God of love in this valley of tears
Had not come to seek betrayal and death,
Suffering would hold no attraction for us.
Now we love it; it is our treasure.
GIVE JOAN A SWORD
This poem was written by Sister Mary Therese, in response to her brother's death during the World War II naval battle at Corregidor.
The night is down on Domremy,
Dark wings have circled every tree,
Shut out the stars and steeped the sky,
In anguish lifted like a cry.
Shaking the young stars from her gown,
Pushing the moon back, Joan peers down,
On lands by terror twisted bare,
That shakes with battle everywhere.
A blight is on the world again;
A blight is on the souls of man;
And dark is death and dark is birth,
As sorrow runs along the earth.
How can she keep her soul in calm,
When towers of Reims and Notre Dame,
Send up their cry of muted bells,
That tear her breast with moans and knells?
How must her hands have ached to hold,
Her shining sword when pain patrolled,
The glory-ridden crimson shore,
Of Batan and Corregidor.
How must her lips have burned to cry,
A challenge to the southern sky,
For heroes who would never see,
The sunset stain the Coral Sea.
Young Joan is restless in the sky;
Young Joan is burning to defy,
The sign that sickens men with pride,
Back to the wars young Joan would ride!
To rout out the bitter pagan horde,
O God of peace, give Joan a sword!
And in this moment, send her down,
To Domremy, to every town!
The next poem Virginia Frohlick wrote in her freshman year of High School. The original title was Ode To A Soldier, then she changed the title to, For Love of Saint Joan. Not satisfied with those two she played with these possibilities, A Tribute To Saint Joan, or Ode To The Soldier Joan. Which one do you think is best?
The cock did crow on that blessed and holy night.
His call rang forth news of great joy in the land filled with blight.
For in that dark and empty sky there but shone one star bright!
The Maid, the savior of France, was born to stun the sight!
As a child of God, she grew straight and true in her faith.
And in that simple little village she learned to pray.
Little did she know that God would have a hand in her fate.
That she would lead an army, His will to obey.
In her father's garden, she saw her holy vision's display.
She listened to their sacred counsel in wide-eyed wonder.
It would come to pass that she would heed their voice until her final day.
And her name would ride across France in a roar of thunder.
To Vaucouleurs, that little town, she one day did ride.
Where Squire Robert and his knights, Bertrand and Jean, did 'bide.
To ask them humbly to help to turn the raging English tide.
To help her to that far off place, Chinon, where the Dauphin did hide.
The Squire girded on, around her waist a sword of gold.
"Let come what may, your story must be told."
The small band sallied forth with spirit bold.
Their faith in her did soar despite the windy cold.
Through dangers untold they rode till they came to Chinon.
Straight way she went to the Dauphin and spoke of what should be.
"God bless thee, gentle Dauphin. Thou shalt have liberty.
I shall lead thy army and break thy heavy bond."
While in silent prayer her soul would soar before the throne of God.
On a milk-white charger she sallied forth with banner in hand.
With the goodly purpose of delivering her war torn land.
"Forward to victory!" she said to her men. "For so will's Our Lord and God!"
The English, around Orleans, were eager the French to slay.
Her army was prepared to give the English their just pay.
The valiant French fought, died, and won on the eighth of May.
And a grateful people would remember with pride that blessed day.
Comrades in arms she had three; Dunois, Alençon and La Hire.
To Orleans, Jargeau, Meung, Beaugency they rode without fear.
They followed wherever she led. Together they avenged the French defeat at Poitiers.
In the English camp they trembled for they knew their end was near.
"Do not tarry here any longer but come to the worthy town.
Listen not, my Dauphin, to those who would lead you astray.
But come straight way to the holy city of Reims and take thy crown.
You have nothing to fear; I have already cleared the way."
Grandly dressed people in fabric rich, blue, red and yellow.
To Reims Cathedral came for Charles' coronation.
As the organ played its notes so pure and mellow.
They watched the Dauphin --- NOW THE KING, in envious admiration!
Emotion over came her and to her knees she fell.
"My good King, you are crowned; my work here is done."
"Arise my child, good news, your parents to you have come.
Now go to them, my child, with all your love to tell."
She darted across the darkened room; into their open arms she flew.
Gently she pressed her kisses upon their elderly brow, so lavishly.
And with tears and warm embraces they hug, so affectionately.
There in that dark little room, the brightness of their love showed through.
But their content would not last because of Duke de la Tremoille.
To deceive the naive Charles so that he could France betray.
Into a false and lying truce, with England and Burgundy.
And in doing so leave to the enemy, Joan as prey.
"I must go to Compiegne, the enemy there to fight!"
Heading her small band, she led straight into the enemies' might.
While in the jaws of battle, she was untimely taken.
Though in Burgundian hands her great spirit was not shaken.
Sold to the mighty English King for ten thousand gold pounds.
Taken like a savage animal in an iron cage through French towns.
Until she reached a dark, damp hole --- the Rouen prison!
There she suffered five torturous months, never to know the sun!
To win the Archbishopric of Rouen, his fondest wish,
So to gain, Bishop Cauchon would obey the scheming English.
And so because of this, he would betray a girl to her doom.
And have the pitiless flames of the stake be her tomb.
It was May and the birds took wing and soared into the sky.
"Joan, you have led yourself to your own excommunication!"
For her King who had left her thus, there was no condemnation.
Nor in that bleak empty moment was there any question --- Why?
Chained tight to that rough stake she shed many mournful tears.
For she knew that her cruel and woeful death was near.
She looked for a glimpse of hope, but found only English jeers.
The time had come for her final victory --- over fear!
Her eyes upturned, she saw Him Who had died for us.
And in a loud clear voice, she cried out, "JESUS, JESUS!"
That soul made free to soar, rose up in the form of a dove.
To Him Who had sent her, to tell the world of His love.
When the world is dark and empty will they remember
Saint Joan of Arc, that gentle little soldier, so brave and free?
When men's hearts are devoid of hope, will they remember
The Maid, the savior of France, who fought for liberty?
AND A CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM
Composed by Andrea Oefinger, Connecticut - 1998.
And in the days of darkness and corruption
there would be born unto the world,
Joan the Maid, Daughter of God,
the second greatest story ever told!
To herald a message divine,
she would leave all that she loved behind.
Devoted to God in her entirety,
to become the best loved heroine of all time!
This pious virgin and mystic
was to be enrolled into the army of God,
addressed and advised by angels and Saints
in righteousness her feet were shod!
Devout and valiant warrior
whose hands held the banner aloft,
to save both Kingdom and Country
to uphold justice no matter the cost!
Fearless Pucelle of Lorraine,
ever vigilant and strong,
sent forth with gifts of the Spirit,
to put right every wrong.
To sanctify a nation divided,
releasing France from enemy chains,
to ready a country for peace
her life not given in vain!
Joan's heart a stronghold for God,
a pure soul on fire with love.
Ever trusting faithful girl
whose last breath exhaled a dove.
And a child shall lead them....
Maid of Orleans
Written by Micheal Watkins, Texas - 1998
Saintly Joan,
To many, unknown.
Thy love of God so simple and sublime,
Vowed to thy duty Among His beauty
That unites your soul to mine.
Unfathomable eyes of gray
Glaring with holy ray
Engendered from her visions of Angels upheld alone
What spectacles she's seen
Those eyes, dismally serene
Seeing through one's soul and the fate of her own.
Pure in body and soul
Such a saintly goal
Unveiled in those eyes wherever seen,
Like the full-orbed moon
Hovering in the gloom
Oe'r a distant, snowy crest, a pure and silent crystalline.
Gallant she rides
With God inside
And her ethereal sword and banner held high with might.
Dauntless it may seem
Such courage men then dreamed
That Joan imparted and bore confronting a fight.
Glorified as savior of France
Her good will is enhanced
By prevailing as a hero still existing today,
A short life of a saint
Victorious and quaint
And by emulation of her, she still leads the way.
Inflamed by the church
A misguided lurch
Last words to Bishop Cauchon, "By you I die!"
How she sustained her faith!
And kept her convictions safe!
Joan of Arc
, by you I live and wonder whyGod took you so soon to be at His side.
For Love of Saint Joan
Composed by Micheal Watkins, Texas - 1998
The springs of life now dehydrated and forlorn,
Ground to the earth by the savage English lance.
With virtue forgotten, supplanted by torment
In boundless gloom which fated to enhance
A miracle prayed for, so a miracle provided-
Such was born the only hope for France.
Slightly dejected, a gaze at her village
Praying by the fount, there flowed her tears
Down her delicate face from caring eyes.
Good-bye to family and these simple years
To sweep away this torment and rid the anguish,
By this lofty maid of seventeen years.
With her obedience to God the footing of her mission
Guided by heavenly voices she rode to see
The sluggish dauphin, estranged from his throne.
He heard her message with a profound sense of mystery.
With the words "Peace be to France, and England, too,"
She relentlessly pursued war's grim misery.
Good-hearted in temper and strategic in war
She imparted God's will to that once unruly hoard.
Inspired by Joan and the sight of her sword,
They battled for France with the utmost of courage.
Elevated, robust, illustrious with might
Her strength came from her love of the Lord.
Bound to God like a shadow to a winter's tree
She was unwilling to deviate from its graceful form.
Gallant she rides and resolute with the triumph
Of her army overcoming the Godons by storm.
The victory she had assured them, was apparent at last
From the blood of this humble maid, France was reborn.
Murky and silent, she's alone in the church
Kneeling in her armor and devoutly she prays.
With habitual reverence she hears her angels
Promising France peaceful days.
By summoning her to this heavy burden and heroic blessing -
Joan's love smothers the cruel blood letting craze.
Such a righteous soul amid shameless schemes
That men of sin wrought this bitter jest
Of a designed treachery that fated her death.
Alas, the flames engulfed her with a cross on her chest.
Her eternal spirit, likewise her memory will be
The work of the Lord, His work at its best.
THE MAID
Composed by Theodore Roberts, 2000
Thunder of riotour hoofs over the quaking sod;
Clash of reeking squadrons, steel-capped, iron-shod;
The White Maid and the white horse, and the flapping banner of God.
Black hearts riding for money; red hearts riding for fame;
The Maid who rides for France and the King who rides for shame -
Gentlemen, fools, and a saint, riding in Christ's high name!
"Dust to dust!" it is written. Wind-scattered are lance and bow;
Dust, the cross of Saint George; dust, the banner of snow.
The bones of the King are crumbled, and rotten the shafts of the foe.
Forgotten, the young knight's valour; forgotten, the captain's skill;
Forgotten, the fear and the hate and the mailed hands raised to kill;
Forgotten, the shields that clashed and the arrows that cried so shrill.
Like a story from some old book, thew battle of long ago;
Shadows, the poor French King and the might of his English foe;
Shadows, the charging nobles and the archers kneeling in a row -
But a flame in my heart and my eyes, the Maid with her banner of snow.
Hero
Composed by Samantha Williams, October 2000
A hero is what you are,
Your name has traveled near to far.
You fought for us, And the lives we live.
You saved us from death,
And gave your life.
Every night I say a prayer,
And tell God to thank you up there.
Your name will live forever,
Joan of Arc.
Valley of Colors -
A humble tribute to the Maid of Orleans
Composed by Lavanya Ramanujam, November 2000
(I would also want to thank Dean Lee Evans whose article gave me the inspiration for the title and also Christopher Russell whose article portrayed Joan as I wanted to see her before I started writing this.)
A peasant maid
her heart full of gaiety and pure goodness
her faith firm in God and her family
born in a valley of colors.
An unquestioning believer
her way in the word of the Lord
her purpose all clear and laid out
for Dauphin, but first for France.
A warrior with dignity
her standard reminding people of her purpose
her place at the head to rally the troops
for their country, for their right.
A leader with courage
her inspiration always in place
her guidance and belief never mislaid
for all those who dared to hope afresh.
A mortal like all of us
but her soul full of immortal goodness and trust
her death was but a beginning for France
her life - a valley of stunning colors.
Saint Joan Of Arc
Composed by Karl Oeyvind Brobakk of Norway 2001
Domremy Was Your Home
That Is Well Known
Your Voices So Clear
In Your Young Ear
God Gave A Task
Why Me You Ask
What Shall I Do
I Listen To You
Go Crown The King
The Angels Did Sing
A Girl Like Me
How Could It Be
It Must Be Done
You Are The One
Show Me The Way
And I Will Pray
An Army You Need
France Must Be Freed
All The Soldiers Obeyed
For The Beloved Maid
The Savior You Are
The Legend Goes Far
Your Banner So White
Your Predictions So Right
You Had Your Faith
And Your Enemies Hate
The End Was Near
The English Did Fear
The News Was Bad
The Story Is Sad
Captured And Later Sold
You Were Not Old
Treated So Very Unfair
Pain You Did Bear
Betrayed By Your King
Why Such A Thing
A Trail Of Lies
Seen In Their Eyes
Burnt On The Stake
By Justice So Fake
Words Can Not Say
Your Feelings That Day
Your Life Slipped Away
But Is Remembered Today
The 30th Of May
Is This Very Day
You Made Your Mark
Even In The Dark
Through War And Truce
Through Glory And Abuse
The Greatness Of You
Will Always Be True
Your Words And Will
Shall Forever Stand Still
In Our Thankful Hearts
Dear Joan Of Arc
IN DOMREMY (for St. Joan of Arc)
Composed by Michael Fantina- June 2001
I climbed the grassy, tree lined hill at noon,
And marveled at its charming sorcery,
Though I had known a girl from Domremy,
Who at first light, or at a pale, pale moon,
Would walk and play and pray each pleasant June.
A child of God, renowned for bravery,
Lost to the world in darkest treachery.
So I knelt down, and mouthed a prayerful rune.
I prayed that I might be, as you once were,
As human as the girls who play here still.
It seemed I whiffed the scent of pungent myrrh,
And gazing down the gently sloping hill,
A girl whose gown and trailing hair were laved
By gentle breezes, smiled, and lightly waved.
Joan The Maid
A Poem by Michael Fantina
JOAN THE MAID (a villanelle)
A well-armed sylph she led a vast crusade
To drive the hated foe into the sea.
The world recalls the tale of Joan The Maid.
At Orleans she broke the tight blockade,
The fleeing English shouted, "Sorcery!"
A well-armed sylph she led a vast crusade.
She broke the English lines. Her men obeyed,
Went up the scaling ladders, breathlessly.
The world recalls the tale of Joan The Maid.
She crowned a crownless king, who then betrayed
This pious girl from distant Domremy.
A well-armed sylph she led a vast crusade.
They led her to that sullen promenade,
Where stake and faggots wait portentously.
The world recalls the tale of Joan The Maid.
Her martyr's death the Living God repaid.
A girl, she speaks to us from History,
A well-armed sylph she led a vast crusade,
The world recalls the tale of Joan The Maid.
Joan of Arc
By Charlie Dimech (written August 2001)
And under intense pressure
And in intense pain
The maid from Orleans
Succumbed to the flames.
The king of the island
Over the bloody sea
Saw the ending of her life
While he looked upon the Thames.
"Joan of Ark!"
The muddy water claimed
"Joan of Ark
Died today
Amidst the flames!"
"Is that my fault?"
Yelled the king
From his towering vault
"The army doesn't control me
Nor do I the Seine."
The river spoke again
"But you belong
In royal robes
and not in arguments on rivers
So how come you talk to me
and consider it with shivers?"
"I am after all a muddiness of mind"
Replied the royal king
"And you as your muddy waters flow by
Appear to me as blind."
"It's not I but your conscience."
Replied the incessant flow
"That talks to you
And this you ought to know."
"Joan of ark!
Joan of Ark!"
Replied the inflamed king
"What have I to do with you
and why do I bellow!!?
What have I to know?"
There was no answer
There was no answer
In the stillness of the night
There silence reigned as lord
And there silence skite."
Marcia Quinn Noren of California, wrote this poem in May of 2002 at 3 in the morning, as she looked out over the Basilica of Sainte Jeanne d'Arc, Domremy France.
La Pucelle
Maid of Mercy,
Soldier of Light,
Heal my broken heart,
Tonight.
Keeper of truth,
Vessel of faith,
Hold me forever,
In sight of your grace.
Amen
The Maid of France, With Visioned Eyes
Written in 1920 by Rt. Rev. Msgr. H. T. Herry
The Maid of France, with visioned eyes,
saw messengers from
paradise and Voices bore a hidden word
that only by her ear was heard.
Refrain:
O Blessed Maid, the chant we raise,
that tells the meaning of thy praise:
Thou teachest us the lesson grand of love
for God and Fatherland.
The Visions and the Voices spoke
A wondrous message: "Break the yoke
that burdens France, and crown your King,
Sweet Herald of his triumphing!"
Refrain:
O Blessed Maid, the chant we raise,
that tells the meaning of thy praise:
Thou teachest us the lesson grand of love
for God and Fatherland.
The Maid believed the great command,
and fought for God and native land:
Her love was like a living lamp,
to guide her foot in court or camp.
Refrain:
O Blessed Maid, the chant we raise,
that tells the meaning of thy praise:
Thou teachest us the lesson grand of love
for God and Fatherland.
O who shall dare her glory paint?
She lived a hero, died a Saint:
A model she shall ever stand
Of love for God and Fatherland.
Refrain:
O Blessed Maid, the chant we raise,
that tells the meaning of thy praise:
Thou teachest us the lesson grand of love
for God and Fatherland.
They Call Me
Written by Mr. Jerry Crouch of Alabama - January 2006.
My Dear Jesus, I hear my name called
Let me go to them
Let me embrace them
Let me touch them with my Heart
Let me fill their souls with Joy
Let me fill their loneliness with friendship
Let me fill their darkness with Your light
My Dear Jesus, I hear my name called
For with them, I must be
For their wounds, I must heal
For their hearts, I must touch
For their path, I must guide
For their stumble, I must uphold
For their sadness, I must bring joy
For their tears, I must wipe away
For their words, I must hear
For my words, they will hear
For my words, are from Jesus, this they will hear
For my words, tell that Jesus is always near
For Jesus, He is here
Jeanne d' Arc
Joan's Final Prayer
Written by Mr. Jerry Crouch of Alabama - January 2006.
Take me from this place, so dark
From this place, I must depart
You cry for me, this I see
For Your heart beats through me
Take me from this place, so cold
Through your love, I am bold
For this day, they come for me
For this day, my soul will be free
Take me to the place I love
In the clouds, so far above
To Your kingdom, I will go
For Your love, I do know
Take me to the clouds I see
In the clouds, come for me
Bring me Your arms of love
As upon the wings of a dove
Prayer to Jeannette d’ Arc (Joan of Arc)
By Nina Bingham
Of course you were burned
for true sacrifices were always burned upon an altar
and offered to the God which appeared as fire
and licked up the sacrifice.
You were reduced to ashes.
Wipe those ashes now above my brow;
perhaps some of your courage might rest on me?
I have grown to love your name
you are both saint and prophet to me
I ask for you when my soul is in anguish
for you drank anguish like water
the mere thought of your name gives me hope.
Oh loveliest of maidens
though who wears the crown of courage
you did not denounce your mission
what you were sent for
in the blackest night
in the intense heat of the flames.
Oh thou who art fairer than the Heavens
at whose knee did you sit learning strength and bravery
at such a tender age?
I am not half the woman as you
Of you Shakespeare wrote:
Thou are more lovely, and more temperate
Jeanne, Jeanne, Jeanne
I repeat your name like a mantra
I cling to the hem of your garment
surely you were His treasure
Jeanette the virgin.
I beg you to bless me
I beseech thee, touch me with your hand
Put your right hand on my head and bless me.
Hear my confusion
For I have erred
and stolen from the King
a sin worthy of death.
Faithful one
you would not have done such a wrong
how can I ask for your mercy?
I pray to you like others pray to Jesus.
Become my confidante in my hour of need
my faithful confessor who will not abandon me
for you do not fear death, you have conquered it.
Why must we die inside?
Isn’t it enough for us to let love have its way;
must we die also?
Does love seem cruel to you
now that you have traversed the lake of fire and come out gleaming as King’s gold?
God can seem so heartless
a sinister plotter
devising ways to crucify yet another me.
Each time I think I have come to know the heart of compassion
I am dealt a blow that crushes me, leaving me breathless and wondering
if I will ever know the real God at all.
As if I have been gazing into a false pool
staring at a reflection that looked generous
yet when I went to take a sip of that black water, it was poison.
I want to call out to you, "My companion, come to me!"
but I am afraid to. You are pure, and I so far from the truth.
Only have I smelled the smoke, never have I been in your fire.
Yet I am cowardly and shrink back quickly.
If you had not been chained to the stake, would you have stood there or run?
When I am at the stake, will I stand or will I run?
You are my hero.
May this thought, even if spoken by the lips of a coward, be a wreath upon your brow, or a cool
breeze upon your most perfect face. Blessed art thou, Joan of Arc, defender of the truth.
For you
defended it with your last breath. Your name shall always be to me a sacred trust.