The Battle

Mike de Angelo drew a breath,

his face gaunt and thin,

“guess the devil’s gonna win this one,” he thought,

“the battle I fought so hard to win.”

His brow was soaked, his bones rattled,

Mike’s poor body ached a lot,

But he couldn’t just quit, oh no!  Not yet!

He’d not given all he’d got.

Propping himself up with a pillow or two,

He’d prepared for the task ahead.

Whatever it cost, he’d not be lost,

And Mike crawled out of bed.

Satan sneered at the ailing man,

And laughed up a storm,

“Fool!” he said, “you’re as good as dead,

“give up you wretched worm.” 

“Or better yet, Yield to me,

spurn your god, and I promise to set you free.

You’re nearly gone, admit I’ve won,

Throw down your rosary!”

Catching his breath, Mike dropped his beads,

Unwittingly, for the pain

Had taken its toll, and wracked his soul—

Mike’s strength began to wane.

“One last time,” he gently puffed,

Pulling vestments over his chin;

It wasn’t far, his little altar,

And Fr. Mike began again:

“Asperges me, Domine,”

Though faint and failing, he said.

And chanting prayers, went on to prepare

The gifts of wine and bread.

“Hoc est enim Corpus Meum;

Domine non sum dignus.”

Thus ended the perfect prayer:

“Pater et Filius et Spiritus Sanctus.”

“No!” Satan cried, aloud, alarmed,

Knowing once again he’d been beat,

And he came at Mike with whips and chains,

Leaving scars from head to his feet.

But the good priest won, his task was done,

As once more he settled the score,

“All for God, And Jesus my Lord,”

And he slumped down to the floor.

No one saw what then transpired,

Of the angels that carried him home,

But I hope this tale has left you inspired,

To love the mass and live for God. Peace to all: Shalom!