need help
(06-23-2011, 10:02 PM)Vincentius Wrote:
(06-23-2011, 09:40 PM)ketchum Wrote:
(06-23-2011, 08:55 PM)Vincentius Wrote: Some prayers to say when near the occasion of sin:

Michael, Michael of the morning,
Fresh chord of Heaven adorning,
Keep me safe today,
And in time of temptation
Drive the devil away.

Where did you get that from?  I like it

This is from the Poem/Prayer by G.K. Chesterton (there's a story behind this of a soldier saved by St.Michael during the Korean War):
To St. Michael in Time of Peace
Gilbert K. Chesterton

This poem was first published in The Legion Book (London 1929), and again in G. K.'s Weekly (September 24, 1936).The poem also appeared in Chesterton Review, May 1990 (Vol 16 No 2).

Michael, Michael: Michael of the Morning,
Michael of the Army of the Lord,
Stiffen thou the hand upon the still sword, Michael,
Folded and shut upon the sheathed sword, Michael,
Under the fullness of the white robes falling,
Gird us with the secret of the sword.

When the world cracked because of a sneer in heaven,
Leaving out for all time a scar upon the sky,
Thou didst rise up against the Horror in the highest,
Dragging down the highest that looked down on the Most High:
Rending from the seventh heaven the hell of exaltation
Down the seven heavens till the dark seas burn:
Thou that in thunder threwest down the Dragon
Knowest in what silence the Serpent can return.

Down through the universe the vast night falling
(Michael, Michael: Michael of the Morning!)
Far down the universe the deep calms calling
(Michael, Michael: Michael of the Sword!)
Bid us not forget in the baths of all forgetfulness,
In the sigh long drawn from the frenzy and the fretfulness
In the huge holy sempiternal silence
In the beginning was the Word.

When from the deeps of dying God astounded
Angels and devils who do all but die
Seeing Him fallen where thou couldst not follow,
Seeing Him mounted where thou couldst not fly,
Hand on the hilt, thou hast halted all thy legions
Waiting the Tetelestai and the acclaim,
Swords that salute Him dead and everlasting
God beyond God and greater than His Name.

Round us and over us the cold thoughts creeping
(Michael, Michael: Michael of the battle-cry!) word.

Round us and under us the thronged world sleeping
(Michael, Michael: Michael of the Charge!)
Guard us the Word; the trysting and the trusting
Edge upon the honour and the blade unrusting
Fine as the hair and tauter than the harpstring
Ready as when it rang upon the targe.

He that giveth peace unto us; not as the world giveth:
He that giveth law unto us; not as the scribes:
Shall he be softened for the softening of the cities
Patient in usury; delicate in bribes?
They that come to quiet us, saying the sword is broken,
Break man with famine, fetter them with gold,
Sell them as sheep; and He shall know the selling
For He was more than murdered. He was sold.

Michael, Michael: Michael of the Mustering,
Michael of the marching on the mountains of the Lord,
Marshal the world and purge of rot and riot
Rule through the world till all the world be quiet:
Only establish when the world is broken
What is unbroken is the word.

The Soldier's Story:

The Story of Michael


What follows is a copy of a letter that was written by a young Marine to his mother while he was hospitalized after being wounded on a Korean battlefield in 1950. It came into the hands of a Navy Chaplain, who read the letter before 5,000 Marines at a San Diego Naval Base in 1951.    The Navy Chaplain had talked to the boy, to the boy's mother and to the Sergeant in charge of the patrol. This Navy Chaplain, Father Walter Muldy, would always assure anyone who asked that this is a true story.   

This letter had been read once a year in the 1960s at a Midwestern radio station at Christmas time. Since thousands of U.S. troops now head to the Persian Gulf for the planned war against Iraq, we publish this remarkable story once more, in the hope that many servicemen and their families will invoke the intercession and protection of Saint Michael. We present the letter and let it stand on its own merits. (J. V.)


Dear Mom,    I wouldn't dare write this letter to anyone but you because no one else would believe it. Maybe even you will find it hard but I have got to tell somebody.  

First off, I am in a hospital. Now don't worry, ya hear me, don't worry. I was wounded but I am okay you understand. Okay. The doctor says that I will be up and around in a month. 

But that is not what I want to tell you.    Remember when I joined the Marines last year; remember when I left, how you told me to say a prayer to St. Michael every day. You really didn't have to tell me that.  Ever since I can remember you always told me to pray to St. Michael the Archangel. You even named me after him. Well I always have.  

When I got to Korea, I prayed-----even harder. Remember the prayer that you taught me?

   "Michael, Michael of the morning fresh corps of Heaven adorning," you know the rest of it. Well I said it every day. Sometimes when I was marching or sometimes resting. But always before I went to sleep. I even got some of the other fellas to say it.   

Well, one day I was with an advance detail way up over the front lines. We were scouting for the Commies. I was plodding along in the bitter cold, my breath was like cigar smoke.  

I thought I knew every guy in the patrol, when along side of me comes another Marine I never met before. He was bigger than any other Marine I'd ever seen. He must have been 6'4" and built in proportion. It gave me a feeling of security to have such a body near.  

Anyway, there we were trudging along. The rest of the patrol spread out. Just to start a conversation I said, "Cold ain't it." And then I laughed. Here I was with a good chance of getting killed any minute and I am talking about the weather.  

My companion seemed to understand. I heard him laugh softly; I looked at him, "I have ever seen you before, I thought I knew every man in the outfit."  

"I just joined at the last minute", he replied. "The name is Michael."    "Is that so," I said surprised. "That is my name too."    "I know," he said and then went on, "Michael, Michael of the morning . . ."  

I was too amazed to say anything for a minute. How did he know my name, and a prayer that you had taught me? Then I smiled to myself, every guy in the outfit knew about me. Hadn't I taught the prayer to anybody who would listen? Why now and then, they even referred to me as St. Michael. 

 Neither of us spoke for a time and then he broke the silence. "We are going to have some trouble up ahead." 

 He must have been in fine physical shape for he was breathing so lightly I couldn't see his breath. Mine poured out in great clouds. There was no smile on his face now. Trouble ahead, I thought to myself, well with the Commies all around us, that is no great revelation. 

Snow began to fall in great thick globs. In a brief moment the whole countryside was blotted out. And I was marching in a white fog of wet sticky particles. My companion disappeared. 

"Michael," I shouted in sudden alarm.    I felt his hand on my arm, his voice was rich and strong, "This will stop shortly."    His prophecy proved to be correct. In a few minutes the snow stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The sun was a hard shining disc. I looked back for the rest of the patrol, there was no one in sight. We lost them in that heavy fall of snow. I looked ahead as we came over a little rise.  

Mom, my heart stopped. There were seven of them. Seven Commies in their padded pants and jackets and their funny hats. Only there wasn't anything funny about them now. Seven rifles were aimed at us. 

"Down Michael," I screamed and hit the frozen earth. 

I heard those rifles fire almost as one. I heard the bullets. There was Michael still standing.    Mom, those guys couldn't have missed, not at that range. I expected to see him literally blown to bits.  

But there he stood, making no effort to fire himself. He was paralyzed with fear. It happens sometimes, Mom, even to the bravest. He was like a bird fascinated by a snake. 

At least, that was what I thought then. I jumped up to pull him down and that was when I got mine. I felt a sudden flame in my chest. I often wondered what it felt like to be hit, now I know.

I remember feeling strong arms about me, arms that laid me ever so gently on a pillow of snow. I opened my eyes, for one last look. I was dying. Maybe I was even dead, I remember thinking, well this is not so bad. Maybe I was looking into the sun. Maybe I was in shock. But it seemed I saw Michael standing erect again only this time his face was shining with a terrible splendor. As I say, maybe it was the sun in my eyes, but he seemed to change as I watched him. He grew bigger; his arms stretched out wide, maybe it was the snow falling again, but there was a brightness around him like the wings of an Angel. In his hand was a sword. A sword that flashed with a million lights.  

Well, that is the last thing I remember until the rest of the fellas came up and found me. I do not know how much time had passed. Now and then I had but a moment's rest from the pain and fever. I remember telling them of the enemy just ahead. 

 "Where is Michael," I asked. 

 I saw them look at one another. "Where's who?" asked one. 

 "Michael, Michael that big Marine I was walking with just before the snow squall hit us."  

"Kid," said the sergeant, "You weren't walking with anyone. I had my eyes on you the whole time. You were getting too far out. I was just going to call you in when you disappeared in the snow." 

 He looked at me, curiously. "How did you do it kid?"  

"How'd I do what?" I asked half angry despite my wound. "This marine named Michael and I were just . . ."  

"Son," said the sergeant kindly, "I picked this outfit myself and there just ain't another Michael in it. You are the only Mike in it."  

He paused for a minute, "Just how did you do it kid? We heard shots. There hasn't been a shot fired from your rifle. And there isn't a bit of lead in them seven bodies over the hill there."  

I didn't say anything, what could I say? I could only look open-mouthed with amazement.  

 It was then the sergeant spoke again, "Kid," he said gently, "everyone of those seven Commies was killed by a sword stroke."   

That is all I can tell you Mom. As I say, it may have been the sun in my eyes, it may have been the cold or the pain. But that is what happened.

Love, Michael

That. Is. Awesome.

What a story. I'm going to start praying big time to St. Michael now. Maybe he'll dust up some pirates on my behalf  ;D

Messages In This Thread
need help - by a83192 - 06-23-2011, 04:04 PM
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Re: need help - by Vincentius - 06-23-2011, 08:55 PM
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