Author: Michele Ainley

  • ‘I beseech a wonderful king': The Hymn of Saint Sanctán

    Below is a hymn attributed to Saint Sanctán (Santán), who, although he is described in the Martyrology of Oengus on his May 9 feast day as ‘famous Bishop Sanctán’, remains intriguingly obscure. Canon O’Hanlon’s account of the saint, which can be read at the blog here records the traditions concerning his British origins and those of his brother Saint Matoc (Madog). The Preface to the hymn, preserved in the early eleventh-century Irish Liber Hymnorum, says that it was composed as Saint Sanctán was on a visit to his brother at the island which bore his name, Inis Matoc. The island’s location has never been identified, although Canon O’Hanlon notes that an island in the lake of Templeport, County Leitrim had been suggested. He also notes that as the the Preface makes clear, up until the visit which inspired the hymn Saint Sanctán was ‘completely ignorant of the Scottish language; but, that he miraculously obtained the gift of Irish metrical composition’. A most timely and useful miracle indeed! Below is the text of Saint Sanctán’s hymn, with a tribute to the author appended, taken from the 1898 translation of The Irish Liber Hymnorum by Bernard and Atkinson:

    PREFACE TO ST. SANCTAN’S HYMN.

    ‘I beseech a wonderful king” Bishop Sanctan composed this hymn, and it was on his going to Clonard westward to Inis Matoc that he composed it; he was brother to Matoc, both of them being of British race, but Matoc came into Ireland earlier quam Bishop Sanctan. Causa autem haec est, to free it ab hostibus, and that his brother should be allowed (to come) to him in insulam; Scoticam uero linguam usque ad horam hanc non habuit sed deus ei tam cito eam donauit. Tempus autem dubitatur.

    St. Sanctan’s Hymn.

    I beseech a wonderful King of angels,
    for it is a name that is mightiest;
    to me (be) God for my rear, God on my left,
    God for my van, God on my right!

    God for my help,—holy call—
    against each danger, Him I invoke!
    a bridge of life let there be below me,
    benediction of God the Father above me!

    Let the lofty Trinity arouse us,
    (each one) to whom a good death (?) is not (yet) certain!
    Holy Spirit noble, strength of heaven,
    God the Father, Mary’s mighty Son!

    A great King who knows our offences
    Lord over earth, without sin,—
    to my soul for every black-sin
    let never demons’ godlessness (?) visit me !

    God with me, may He take away each toil!
    may Christ draw up my pleadings,
    may apostles come all around me,
    may the Trinity of witness come to me!

    May mercy come to me (on) earth,
    from Christ let not (my) songs be hidden!
    let not death in its death-wail reach me,
    nor sudden death in disease befal me!

    May no malignant thrust that stupefies and perplexes
    reach me without permission of the Son of God!
    May Christ save us from every bloody death,
    from fire, from raging sea !

    From every death-drink, that is unsafe
    for my body, with many terrors!
    may the Lord each hour come to me
    against wind, against swift waters!

    I shall utter the praises of Mary’s Son
    who fights for good deeds,
    (and) God of the elements will reply,
    (for) my tongue (is) a lorica for battle.

    In beseeching God from the heavens
    may my body be incessantly laborious;
    that I may not come to horrible hell
    I beseech the King whom I have besought.
    I beseech a wonderful King.

    Bishop Sanctan … a sage
    soldier, angel famous pure-white,
    may he make free my body on earth,
    may he make holy my soul towards heaven !

    May there be a prayer with thee for me, O Mary!
    May heaven’s King be merciful to us
    against wound, danger and peril!
    O Christ, on Thy protection (rest) we !

    I beseech the King free, everlasting
    Only Son of God, to watch over us;
    may He protect me against sharp dangers,
    He, the Child that was born in Bethlehem.

    J.H. Bernard and R. Atkinson (eds. and trans.), The Irish Liber hymnorum, Vol. II (Henry Bradshaw Society, London, 1898), 47-48.

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  • An Irish Poem on the Day of Judgement

    I have been re-reading Donald Meek’s excellent The Quest for Celtic Christianity, a review of which can be found on the blog here. He points out that modern ‘Celtic Christians’, in their desire to recast the early medieval Irish (and Scottish and Welsh) church in their own image, leads some of its exponents to:

    …make light of, or completely avoid, those aspects of early medieval Catholic doctrine and practice which are characteristic of real Celtic Christianity. Protestant writers who wish to claim ‘Celtic Christianity’ as their model make little or no mention of the mass, the practice of penance or the widespread belief in the efficacy of relics.

    Donald Meek, The Quest for Celtic Christianity, (Edinburgh, 2000), p.95.

    I had this in mind while reading the poem below on the Day of Judgement, which the editor thought may date to the tenth century. The impossibly upbeat modern “Celtic church” has little time for sin, judgement and hell, yet here we have a Middle Irish reflection on these very themes. I am sure that modern ‘Celtic Christians’ would applaud the notion that the poor and humble will be exalted whilst arrogant clerics and other authority figures get their comeuppance. Sadly, our ancestors were not on message about gender equality, for ‘lewd unwomanly women’ face the wrath of heaven’s King too. Yet for all that this poem presents the realities of medieval notions of hell – complete with black demons, fire and suffering – it is balanced by a litany of petitions for deliverance. The final stanza is particularly comforting, expressing the hope that we may be wheat in the divine granary and triumph ‘in the rout of Doom’:

    A Poem on the Day of Judgement

    1. Doom! Not slight will be its uproar when the world will burn; it were meet, O Christ with grades [of angels], that Adam’s seed should dread it.
    2. Obdurate is the human race, harder than stones are their hearts when they heed not the many vast pains.
    3. When the earth will vomit forth the hosts of Adam’s vast seed, when one blaze will fill both heaven and earth.
    4. When the host of hell, the tribes of earth, the multitude of saints, the nine grades of angels will meet in one gathering when each question will be solved.
    5. When the Judge will pronounce righteous true judgements, awarding heaven to the chosen, increase of punishment to the evil folk.
    6. The humble, lowly, devout folk with purity of heart, the despised wretches will be in the ranks of heaven’s King.
    7. The red-mouthed brehons, the lewd, the sinful, the satirists, the contentious, arrogant clerics will find neither honour nor welcome.
    8. The envious, the parricides, the wicked impious chiefs, the lewd unwomanly women will find death and extinction.
    9. Bitter and harsh will be their repentance, they will shed tears over cheeks, the lying, the impious, the folk of every enduring sin.
    10. It will be a shame, it will be a reproach to the host of the wicked, as you shall see, when all will behold the sin of each one of them.
    11. After being for a long space of time in the scorching fire of Doom, they will be cast by the King of the Sun into a place of torture at last.
    12. Sorry will be the outcry they will make, dreadful will be their wailings, as they part from holy angels, as they go with black demons.
    13. Woe to the soul which heeds not the din of the mighty Day of Doom; worse seventy-seven times to dwell in hard avenging hell.
    14. Its bitter cold, its great burning, its hunger, its dreadful thirst, its crushing, its heavy revenge, its horror, its stifling smoke, its slaying.
    15. Its many fearful monsters, its groaning, its wild woeful lament, its fiery rotten sea, its vile devilish faces.
    16. Woe to him who hath come into this world, woe to our body, woe to our souls to each one who is destined to dwell for ever in ruthless hell.
    17. Of Thy fondness, O fond Father, of Thy gentleness, O King of Heaven, cast me not into the bitter prison in which there are many groans.
    18. For the sake of each noble intercession in heaven and on earth, when Thou wilt . . . with me, deal gently with my soul!
    19. For the sake of Thy cross, of Thy passion, of Thy Kingship, O Prince, come valiantly to my aid in all the sufferings of my soul.
    20. For the sake of each noble intercession in heaven and on earth, I pray Thee, O Christ of my heart, that the Kingdom of Heaven may be for my soul.
    21. For the sake of Thy cross, of Thy passion, protect me against all iniquity, lest, O Heavenly King, the temptations of demons or men destroy me.
    22. For the sake of Thy cross, of Thy passion, come forthwith to my aid; before I go from the yellow world take from me every unrighteousness.
    23. Of Thy vast mercy protect me at all times, put into my soul Thy great love, that it may be overflowing with love for Thee.
    24. That I may be wheat in Thy granary on the day when the chaff is burned, that I may carry off victory and triumph yonder in the rout of Doom.

    J.G. O’Keefe, ‘A Poem on the Day of Judgement’, Ériu Vol 3 (1907), 29-33.

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  • Irish Saints in the War Poetry of Katharine Tynan

     

    Links between Ireland and Belgium were forged during the great missionary endeavours of the early medieval Irish church when Irish saints such as Saint Foillan, Ultan and Fursey made their mark. Later the scholars in exile in the Irish College at Louvain recovered and preserved the Lives of those Irish saints who had laboured in Europe and in many cases reintroduced them to their countrymen. These links were recalled during the First World War when a particular appeal was made to Ireland to come to the aid of ‘gallant little Belgium’ and fight for the rights of small nations. The Irish also made a contribution to the poetry associated with the Great War, and in the two poems below Katharine Tynan (1861-1931) invokes the saints of Ireland for aid and protection. In the first poem, she contrasts a peaceful idyllic scene in Ireland, where people sleep soundly under the watchful presence of the Irish saints, with the scene of devastation in war-ravaged Belgium, where the saints seem to be silent. In the second poem a mother commends her ‘little son’ (probably a big strapping lad!) to the protection of the Irish saints and the heavenly hosts. I would like to dedicate this post to my own great-uncle James, who died aged 19 in 1915 and is one of many who has no known grave, but is remembered only as a name on the Menin Gate Memorial.

    THE WATCHERS

    THE cottages all lie asleep;
    The sheep and lambs are folded in
    Winged sentinels the vale will keep
    Until the hours of life begin.

    The children with their prayers all said
    Sleep until cockcrow shall awake
    The gardens in their gold and red
    And robins in the bush and brake.

    The fields of harvest golden-white,
    The fields of pasture rich and green,
    Sleep on nor fear the kindly night,
    The watching mountains set between.

    The river sings its sleepy song,
    Nought stirs the wakeful owl beside:
    Our peace is builded sure and strong
    No evil beast can creep inside.

    St Patrick and St Brigid hold
    The vale its little houses all,
    While men-at-arms in white and gold
    Glide swiftly by the outer wall.

    St Brendan and St Kevin pluck
    The robes of God that He may hear–
    And Colum: “Keep the Irish flock
    So that no shame or sin come near.”

    What news of Belgian folk to-day?
    How fare the village and the town?
    O Belgium’s all on fire they say,
    And all her towers are toppling down.

    What are her angels doing then,
    And are the Belgian saints asleep,
    That in this night of dule and pain
    The Belgians mourn, the Belgians weep?

    Katharine Tynan, Flower of Youth:Poems in War Time, (London, 1917), 18-19.

    In the second poem, A Woman Commends Her Little Son, an Irish mother calls on a host of heavenly protectors to look out for her boy:

    A WOMAN COMMENDS HER LITTLE SON

    To the aid of my little son
    I call all the magnalities —
    Archangel, Dominion,
    Powers and Principalities.

    Mary without a stain,
    Joseph that was her spouse,
    All God’s women and men,
    Out of His glorious House.

    The Twelve Apostles by him:
    Matthew and Mark and John,
    Luke, the Evangelists nigh him,
    So he fight not alone.

    Patrick, Columcille, Bride —
    The Saints of the Irish nation;
    Keiran, Kevin beside,
    In the death and the desolation.

    Listen, ye soldier saints,
    Sebastian, Ignatius, Joan,
    Be by his side; if he faints,
    Strengthen my little son.

    In the Side of Christ I lay him,
    In the Wound that the spear made;
    In the pierced Hands I stay him,
    So I am not afraid.

    On the knees of the Blessed Mary
    And in the fold of her arm,
    Refuge and sanctuary
    Where he shall take no harm.

    To the Wound in the Heart of Christ,
    To the Trinity Three in One,
    To the Blood spilled out, unpriced,
    For love of my little son.

    Katharine Tynan, Herb o’ Grace: Poems in War-Time. (London, 1918), 49-50.

    Content Copyright © Omnium Sanctorum Hiberniae 2012-2024. All rights reserved.