CHRISTUS VINCIT - Christ Victorious

The battle is over,

The victory is won,

Evil is vanquished,

Triumphant God’s Son.

The Suffering Servant,

Impaled not by nails,

But gratuitous love,

On the Cross of travail.

All hail to the Victim,

For crushing the head,

Of the vile, wily Serpent,

And vanquishing death.

Once heirs of old Adam,

Our ransom’s been paid,

We are born of the Spirit,

By grace, we are saved.

Myra D’Souza / 04 July, 2020

OUR PARISH – ST. THERESE

Once upon a time there was,

A chapel in the sand,

That stood with arms wide open,

To God’s faithful little band.

From very small beginnings,

Spanning fifty years,

She grew in grace and stature,

Through prayers and toil and tears.

Once upon a time she served,

In very humble ways,

Her years of service now repaid,

With plenitude of grace.

She ministers to every soul,

Who enters her to pray,

Her loyal and devoted priests,

Help many souls each day.

Once upon a time she bore,

The scars of passing years,

Her walls were worn and peeling,

Her rooms were small and drear.

Now she stands in splendor,

Her children richly blessed,

Today she is a Parish,

Saint Therese her Patroness.

The Bishop's aspirations,

The clergy's pastoral care,

The strength and inspiration,

Of their vision and their prayers,

Have built a firm foundation,

And the worship offered here,

Will be a lasting testament,

Enduring through the years.

Myra D’Souza / 19 October 2009

Songs My Brother Sang

He lived his life with courage,
Knowing death had set a date,
Feigning he knew lady luck,
Ignoring his ill fate.

He dared to keep on dreaming,
His heart preferred to fly,
Although his dreaded flesh told him,
That he was doomed to die.

The ones he loved would break his heart,
But he would sigh no sighs,
Neither look nor word would dim,
His ever smiling eyes.

He was a gentle dreamer,
His dreams would soar on wings,
When he put paint to canvas,
Or plucked his guitar strings.

What is my brother’s epitaph?
He kept his face alight,
While life rained blows upon him?
Or his patience with a child?

He had so very little,
Yet claimed his life was grand,
Weaving dreams with star dust,
Building castles in the sand.

The songs my brother sang will be,
Remembered by us all,
We’ll smile a little sadly,
When his life we will recall.




Myra D’souza / 27 August 2008 /
12 October 2010