Fr Frank writes:
In this month of the Holy Souls and on this Remembrance Sunday I offer you a classic poem about Christian death.
Death, be not Proud
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
for those whom thou thinkst thou dost overthrow
die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
much pleasure – then, from thee much more must flow;
and soonest our best men with thee do go.
Rest of their bones and soul’s delivery.
Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
and dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
and poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
and better than thy stroke. Why swellst thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
and death shall be no more, Death, thou shalt die.
May the souls of the faithful departed rest in peace.
I went to the doctor and he said, ‘You’ve got hypochondria.’ I said, ‘Not that as well.’
I’ve just read a book about Stockholm syndrome. It started off badly, but by the end I really liked it.