Clean up your house, prepare the feast;
for He comes soon, our great High Priest.

To find ourselves we journey far;
the answer’s here, just where we are.

We strive to reach the pinnacle
when all we need is the cenacle.

Worldly triumph, unworldly doom.
Dispose of acclaim with a humble broom.

Life is long, life is short;
we must dress well for the heavenly court.

The shepherd came to tend his sheep,
but all had left or gone to sleep.

A thousand groans, a million sighs,
but by our stones the sparrow dies.

A woman smiles, a man may scorn,
together they weave a crown of thorns.

He was just here, they hung him there;
the world grows dim, does no one care?

Where have they laid my lovely Lord?
The music ends on a screeching chord.

The heaviest stone is cast aside,
the highest gate is opened wide.

In wood and word, by nail and song,
all praise the Lord forever long!

mr. Ron Vardiman, O.P.