~ by Charles A. Coulombe
Weeping there, the Mother stands above
the altar at Soledad,
ebon-draped, inside that valley where
the very wind is sad.
And its blowing through the mountains
like the cries of souls long crushed,
tells the tale of dreams an Empire turned
by treason into dust.
Truth and glory from Iberia
came into the valley dim,
brought the light of love to Christendom’s
northern rim.
In the way that up the rivers, through
the valleys with great pain,
was brought the splendor that was France,
and glory that was Spain.
Loyal saints and martyrs served their Kings
and served their God.
Their souls indeed found Heaven while
their bodies fed the sod!
Though the French have gone from Vincennes,
the Spanish left Tubac,
their spirit lives in San Antone
and the Fortress of Quebec.
The Churches of New Orleans
and the Churches of Carmel
still show the old defiance of the
English and of Hell.
Though the Godless Yankee moneyman
in the end have won the day,
from across the sea came immigrants
who believed the ancient way.
But the sons of Poland, and the Swiss,
the men of Italy,
could not resist the horrid blight
which claimed to set me free.
The Mass is stripped of all
that splendor, truly due a King.
Collared fools have muddied
the Sacramental spring.
Clerical opportunists prate of love,
communal joy,
but they know them as mere slogans,
a rather useful ploy.
To think of Father Serra and the
pioneers of Faith,
will bring to mind our clergy’s
losing of God’s Grace.
Though Our Lady cries in Soledad,
where the winds do moan,
on my honor, Lady Mary,
you do not weep alone.