The Martyrs in the Catacombs
By Charles J. Peterson
They lie all around me, countless in their number,
Each martyr with his palm.
No torture now can rack them: safe they slumber,
Hushed in eternal calm!
I read the rude inscriptions, written weeping,
At night with hurried tears.
Yet what a tale they tell! their secret keeping
Through all these thousand years.
“In Pace.” Yes, at peace. By sword, or fire,
Or cross, or lictor’s rod—
Virgin, or matron; youth, or gray-haired sire:
For all, the peace of God.
“In Christo.” Died in Christ. Oh, tragic story!
Yet, over shouts, and cries,
And lion’s roar, they heard the saints in glory
Singing from Paradise.
“Ad Deum.” Went to God. Wide swung the portal;
Dim sank the sands away;
And, chanting “Alleluia,” the immortal
Passed to Eternal Day.
Agnes, Cecilia! Names undying ever,—
What’s Cæsar’s gain to this?
He lived for self; they for their high endeavour.
His, fame; theirs, endless bliss.
And pagan Rome herself? Her wisest teacher
Could teach but how to die!
Sad, hopeless emperor, echoing the Preacher,
“All, all is vanity.”
He slew the martyrs. Yet, through ages crying,
This noble truth they give:
“Life is but birth-throes. Death itself, not dying.
We pass to God—to live.”
O blessed hope! O faith that conquers sorrow!
Pain, heart-break, all shall cease.
They are but gateways to a glad to-morrow.
“In Pace.” God is peace.