A Roman Miracle

A pretty maid, a Protestant, was to a Catholic wed.

To love all Bible truths and tales, quite early she’d been bred.

It sorely grieved her husband’s heart that she would not comply.

And join the Mother Church of Rome and heretics deny.

So day by day he flattered her, but still she saw no good

Would ever come from bowing down to idols made of wood.

The mass, the host, the miracle, were made but to deceive;

And transubstantiation, too, she’d never dare believe.

He went to see his clergyman and told him his sad tale.

“My wife is an unbeliever, sir; you can perhaps prevail.

“For all your Romish miracles, my wife has strong aversion.

 “To really work a miracle may lead her to conversion.”

The priest went with the gentleman—he thought to gain a prize.

He said, “I will convert her, sir, and open both her eyes.”

So when they came into the house, the husband loudly cried,

“The priest has come to dine with us” “He’s welcome,” she replied.

And when at last the meal was o’er, the priest at once began,

To teach his hostess all about the sinful state of man;

The greatness of our Saviour’s love, which Christians can’t deny.

To give Himself a sacrifice and for our sins to die.

“I will return tomorrow, lass, prepare some bread and wine;

“The sacramental miracle will stop your soul’s decline.”

“I’ll bake the bread,” the lady said. You may he did reply.

“And when you’ve seen this miracle, convinced you’ll be, says I.”

The priest did come accordingly, the bread and wine did bless.

The lady asked, “Sir, is it changed?” The priest answered “Yes.”

“It’s changed from common elements to truly flesh and blood.

“Begorra, lass, this power of mine has changed it into God.”

So having blessed the bread and wine, to eat they did prepare.

The lady said unto the priest, “I warn you, take care.”

“For half an ounce of arsenic was mixed right in the batter.

“But, since you have its nature changed, it cannot really matter.”

The priest was struck real dumb—he looked as pale as death.

The bread and wine fell from his hands, and he did gasp for breath.

“Bring me my horse!” the priest cried. “This is a cursed home!”

The lady replied, “Begone, ‘tis you who share the curse of Rome.”

The husband, too, he sat surprised, and not a word did say.

At length, he spoke. “My dear,” said he, “the priest has run away;

“To gulp such mummery and tripe, I’m not for sure quite able.

“I’ll go with you, and we’ll renounce this Roman Catholic fable.”

                                                                                         —Author Unknown

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