Poems & Prayers

This page gives some of the poems and prayers that have been written about and to St Brigid. We include some we wrote ourselves.

Saint Brigid

You were a woman of peace.
You brought harmony where there was conflict.
You brought light to the darkness.
You brought hope to the downcast.
May the mantle of your peace cover those who are troubled and anxious,
and may peace be firmly rooted in our hearts and in our world.
Inspire us to act justly and to reverence all God has made.
Brigid you were a voice for the wounded and the weary.
Strengthen what is weak within us.
Calm us into a quietness that heals and listens.
May we grow each day into greater wholeness in mind, body and spirit.

The Day

By Aoibheann O’Farrell and Kate O’Neill

Once a year the day comes around
The reeds of the cross are tightly bound,
In the towns land of Kildare
There are parades and festivals everywhere,
The children play, laugh and cheer
They feel her holy presence near,
People tell stories and they spoke
They spoke of the woman in the cloak,
She spread her cloak across the land
Where now her church proudly stands,
She did this because she could not pay,
Yes, it is St.Brigid’s day!

Here are Aoibheann and Kate reciting their poem

Cardinal Moran's Prayer to St. Brigid

O Glorious St. Brigid, Mother of the Churches of Erin, patroness of our missionary race, wherever their lot may be cast, be thou our guide in the paths of virtue, protect us amid temptation, shield us from danger. Preserve to us the heritage of chastity and temperance; keep ever brightly burning on the altar of our hearts the sacred Fire of Faith, Charity, and Hope, that thus we may emulate the ancient piety of Ireland's children, and the Church of Erin may shine with peerless glory as of old. Thou wert styled by our fathers " The Mary of Erin," secure for us by thy prayers the all-powerful protection of the Blessed Virgin, that we may be numbered here among her most fervent clients, and may hereafter merit a place together with Thee and the countless Saints of Ireland, in the ranks of her triumphant children in Paradise.

Saint Bridget’s Poem

By Meg Maguire

The first of February comes once a year
And with it comes a great big cheer.
Cheering for the Saint that is
Saint Bridget of Kildare, Ireland.

She longed for land to build a church
But money, oh, she had to search
And then upon a great field she stumbled
A cathedral here, she would be so humbled.

She begged the owner to show her love
And share his wealth of land above
He laughed and said ‘Throw your cloak’
‘Where it lands you may own’, he joked.

So Bridget threw her soft blue cloak
And to all surprise it began to grow
Grow and stretch far and wide
Till Bridget had enough land by her side.

The owner grunted but kept his deal
The land was Bridget’s on all appeal.
She built a church and today it stands
County Kildare on that same land.

Here is Meg reading her own poem

"The Giveaway"

(from THE LOVE LETTERS OF PHYLLIS MCGINLEY, New York, Viking Press, 1957)

Saint Bridget was
 A problem child.
 Although a lass
 Demure and mild,
 And one who strove
 To please her dad,
 Saint Bridget drove
 The family mad.
 For here's the fault in Bridget lay:
 She WOULD give everything away.

 To any soul
 Whose luck was out
 She'd give her bowl
 Of stirabout;
 She'd give her shawl,
 Divide her purse
 With one or all.
 And what was worse,
 When she ran out of things to give
 She'd borrow from a relative.

 Her father's gold,
 Her grandsire's dinner,
 She'd hand to cold
 and hungry sinner;
 Give wine, give meat,
 No matter whose;
 Take from her feet
 The very shoes,
 And when her shoes had gone to others,
 Fetch forth her sister's and her mother's.

 She could not quit.
 She had to share;
 Gave bit by bit
 The silverware,
 The barnyard geese,
 The parlor rug,
 Her little
 niece-'s christening mug,
 Even her bed to those in want,
 And then the mattress of her aunt.

 An easy touch
 For poor and lowly,
 She gave so much
 And grew so holy
 That when she died
 Of years and fame,
 The countryside
 Put on her name,
 And still the Isles of Erin fidget
 With generous girls named Bride or Bridget.

 Well, one must love her.
 In thinking of her
 There's no denial
 She must have been
 A sort of trial
 Unto her kin.

The moral, too, seems rather quaint.
 WHO had the patience of a saint,
 From evidence presented here?
 Saint Bridget?  Or her near and dear?

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