Excerpt from The Pilgrim of Our Lady of Martyrs, Vol. 11: Little Messenger of the Sacred Hearts; January, 1895
But now the Christmas Star so bright, Is hid from us as by some fog, Which shrouds the Jack o' Lantern's light At dusk within the darksome bog.
Men look upon the Son of Man As hero of some ancient tale, Whose glory o'er the ages' span, Seems almost tarnished and grown pale.
This reckless Christmas holiday, Forgetting Him who gave it birth, But fills my heart with deep dismay, With all its hollow, sinful mirth.
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