Anne Lynch Botta

“ Unheeded then will pass the Angel throngs;
I shall not hear the Seraph’s burning songs,
And heaven itself will be all dark to me.
Oh give me rather that drear, hopeless faith,
That sees no morn beyond the night of death! ”

“ The incarnation of profoundest love;
Who on the Cross that love didst consummate;
Whose deep and ample fullness could embrace
The poorest, meanest of our fallen race:
How shall we e’er that boundless debt repay? ”