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Welcome. On this page you will find the music of our very own, Fr. Elijah Joseph. Fr. Elijah is a priest in our Diocese who is working closely with Mother Gabrielle Marie to found the male branch of the Benedictines of the Divine Will. He also is a songwriter who has been writing his own songs for over twenty years. Below you will find samples of some of his work that you can share and download. Donations, of course, are gratefully accepted.
Fr. Elijah Joseph and Mother Gabrielle Marie at the cave where San Marino slept when he was a hermit.
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Fr. Elijah's most recent project is an album entitled, "Padre Elia." It is a collection of 12 acoustic songs.
Listen, share, and download below.
Listen, share, and download below.
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What can I say as my breath flies away as I'm staring at this out the window,
An Umbrian hill where the snow resting still in this land of St. Francis and Claire,
I wonder if they would have played in the snow,
Built a toboggan and slid like children,
I guess we'll never know,
But I know in my heart that they still are a part of this land of St. Francis and Claire,
Yes I know in my heart that they still are a part of this land of St. Francis and Claire.
At times I'm afraid of the choices I've made and I wonder if I'm just a dreamer,
Don Quixote in school, a star-gazing fool in this land of St. Francis and Claire,
They tell me that grown ups we can not fly,
I nod in agreement then reconsider wondering, "why?",
As my thought flies away to what Francis would say
in this land of St. Francis and Claire,
Yes my thought flies away to what Francis would say in this land of St. Francis and Claire.
Yes my thought flies away to what Francis would say in this land of St. Francis and Claire.
Well reasonably they're as sharp as they come,
22 letters that follow their name but I prefer to be dumb,
Like the Umbrian fool he has opened his school in this land of St. Francis and Claire,
Like Old Brother Ass who is teaching his class in this land of St. Francis and Claire,
So Lord make me an ass in old Francis' class in this land of St. Francis and Claire.
An Umbrian hill where the snow resting still in this land of St. Francis and Claire,
I wonder if they would have played in the snow,
Built a toboggan and slid like children,
I guess we'll never know,
But I know in my heart that they still are a part of this land of St. Francis and Claire,
Yes I know in my heart that they still are a part of this land of St. Francis and Claire.
At times I'm afraid of the choices I've made and I wonder if I'm just a dreamer,
Don Quixote in school, a star-gazing fool in this land of St. Francis and Claire,
They tell me that grown ups we can not fly,
I nod in agreement then reconsider wondering, "why?",
As my thought flies away to what Francis would say
in this land of St. Francis and Claire,
Yes my thought flies away to what Francis would say in this land of St. Francis and Claire.
Yes my thought flies away to what Francis would say in this land of St. Francis and Claire.
Well reasonably they're as sharp as they come,
22 letters that follow their name but I prefer to be dumb,
Like the Umbrian fool he has opened his school in this land of St. Francis and Claire,
Like Old Brother Ass who is teaching his class in this land of St. Francis and Claire,
So Lord make me an ass in old Francis' class in this land of St. Francis and Claire.
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At times I think I can't go on,
This twisted road's too steep,
And the wolves are circling.
But as I fall with bleeding faith you gently lift me up,
And help me to believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
And for this I thank you with all my heart.
A critic's eye can wound the heart,
And leave the soul in tears,
And the mind in shadow.
But you are light that heals and burns the frozen night away,
That helps me to believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
And for this I thank you with all my heart.
It's a mystery to me why you would even want to be my best friend,
But when I think surrender is the only choice it's then that I remember you,
And you pull me through,
And I believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
And for this I thank you with all my heart.
This twisted road's too steep,
And the wolves are circling.
But as I fall with bleeding faith you gently lift me up,
And help me to believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
And for this I thank you with all my heart.
A critic's eye can wound the heart,
And leave the soul in tears,
And the mind in shadow.
But you are light that heals and burns the frozen night away,
That helps me to believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
And for this I thank you with all my heart.
It's a mystery to me why you would even want to be my best friend,
But when I think surrender is the only choice it's then that I remember you,
And you pull me through,
And I believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
Believe in myself again,
And for this I thank you with all my heart.
VESPERS ON THE CORNER |
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Baltimore has harbors with yachts and oyster bars,
Where gentlemen will dine with fiancés,
But only a mile away is the broken part of town,
Near the grotto brothers stand around singing. . .
Vespers on the corner,
Street cars cruising by,
A statue of our Lady,
Incense drifting toward the sky,
A brother sings an antiphon,
As a homeless man walks by,
In silent agony,
Like Jesus crucified on Calvary.
Pink champagne is flowing on yachts that gleam like pearls,
As lobster steams on sterling silver trays.
But only a mile away there's plastic diamond rings,
On the bony fingers of the prostitutes who hear us sing. . .
Vespers on the corner,
Street cars cruising by,
A statue of our Lady,
Incense drifting toward the sky,
A brother sings an antiphon,
And to our surprise,
Standing next to me,
Is that homeless man with a breviary,
And his fingers know the pages,
His lips can sing the chants,
For he once had been a brother in a Friary in France,
Yes I see Jesus Christ rising,
In the luminescent glance,
Of a toothless, homeless man who is singing. . .
Vespers on the corner,
Street cars cruising by,
A statue of our Lady,
Incense drifting toward the sky,
A brother sings an antiphon,
And a homeless man replies
And in a flash of grace,
I see the holy face,
Of Jesus.
Standing on the corner,
Vespers on the Corner.
Where gentlemen will dine with fiancés,
But only a mile away is the broken part of town,
Near the grotto brothers stand around singing. . .
Vespers on the corner,
Street cars cruising by,
A statue of our Lady,
Incense drifting toward the sky,
A brother sings an antiphon,
As a homeless man walks by,
In silent agony,
Like Jesus crucified on Calvary.
Pink champagne is flowing on yachts that gleam like pearls,
As lobster steams on sterling silver trays.
But only a mile away there's plastic diamond rings,
On the bony fingers of the prostitutes who hear us sing. . .
Vespers on the corner,
Street cars cruising by,
A statue of our Lady,
Incense drifting toward the sky,
A brother sings an antiphon,
And to our surprise,
Standing next to me,
Is that homeless man with a breviary,
And his fingers know the pages,
His lips can sing the chants,
For he once had been a brother in a Friary in France,
Yes I see Jesus Christ rising,
In the luminescent glance,
Of a toothless, homeless man who is singing. . .
Vespers on the corner,
Street cars cruising by,
A statue of our Lady,
Incense drifting toward the sky,
A brother sings an antiphon,
And a homeless man replies
And in a flash of grace,
I see the holy face,
Of Jesus.
Standing on the corner,
Vespers on the Corner.
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I want to write a love song but I don't know where to start,
A million are the pieces shattered of my heart,
I know you're turning away,
But I will go on waiting 1000 years or a day.
I can still remember the moonlight on your hair,
The secrets that you told me as you hugged your teddy bear,
But now you don't even pray,
But I will go on waiting 1000 years or a day.
I'm waiting by the streetlamp as it turns the rain to gold,
I'm waiting by the spurts of flame that flicker through the coal,
I am tucked in every sunrise and concealed in flakes of snow,
And when you close your eyes at night I never let you go.
But what good is a love song, a feeble work of art,
When I've given you me universe, my body and my heart,
And still you're turning away,
But I will go on waiting a thousand years,
Unless the sing can bring you home. . .today.
A million are the pieces shattered of my heart,
I know you're turning away,
But I will go on waiting 1000 years or a day.
I can still remember the moonlight on your hair,
The secrets that you told me as you hugged your teddy bear,
But now you don't even pray,
But I will go on waiting 1000 years or a day.
I'm waiting by the streetlamp as it turns the rain to gold,
I'm waiting by the spurts of flame that flicker through the coal,
I am tucked in every sunrise and concealed in flakes of snow,
And when you close your eyes at night I never let you go.
But what good is a love song, a feeble work of art,
When I've given you me universe, my body and my heart,
And still you're turning away,
But I will go on waiting a thousand years,
Unless the sing can bring you home. . .today.
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I watch from a window in San Marino,
A Superpower scream while waving a gun,
And I ask the question of San Marino,
"What have they begun, what have they begun?"
There are 9 castles in San Marino,
But it's not London it's not Paris or Rome,
But it's the oldest, surviving Republic,
And I call it home,
Yes call it my home.
But I was raised in a Brooklyn park right near Lady Liberty,
But I'll confess I never read your ancient history,
San Marino.
But you were rising when Rome was falling,
You kept on standing through the plagues and the wars,
So here's a penny for what you're thinking,
As the fighters soar,
As they march off to war.
But I was raised in a Brooklyn park right near Lady Liberty,
But I'll confess I never read your ancient history,
San Marino.
Hey youth is foolish, San Marino,
So share the wisdom that your castles have stored,
But maybe wisdom is staying silent,
Is the tongue a sword when you will be ignored?
I was raised in a Brooklyn park right near Lady Liberty,
But I'm afraid the land I love won't read your history,
San Marino.
A Superpower scream while waving a gun,
And I ask the question of San Marino,
"What have they begun, what have they begun?"
There are 9 castles in San Marino,
But it's not London it's not Paris or Rome,
But it's the oldest, surviving Republic,
And I call it home,
Yes call it my home.
But I was raised in a Brooklyn park right near Lady Liberty,
But I'll confess I never read your ancient history,
San Marino.
But you were rising when Rome was falling,
You kept on standing through the plagues and the wars,
So here's a penny for what you're thinking,
As the fighters soar,
As they march off to war.
But I was raised in a Brooklyn park right near Lady Liberty,
But I'll confess I never read your ancient history,
San Marino.
Hey youth is foolish, San Marino,
So share the wisdom that your castles have stored,
But maybe wisdom is staying silent,
Is the tongue a sword when you will be ignored?
I was raised in a Brooklyn park right near Lady Liberty,
But I'm afraid the land I love won't read your history,
San Marino.
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What can I say to you that I've never said before?
I wish there were other ways of saying, "I love you,"
But there's not,
For only this says what my heart wants to say,
Jesus I love you.
You spoke and the stars were born, but now you are silent,
Under a veil of bread, high on the altar,
And I know that only this says what your heart wants to say,
To tell me you love me,
Jesus I love you too. . .
With all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength O Lord I love you.
With all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength O Lord I love you.
And so I will say no more,
I'll simply adore you,
Under a veil of bread, high on the altar,
For I know that only this says what my heart wants to say,
Jesus I love you,
Jesus I love you,
Jesus I love you.
I wish there were other ways of saying, "I love you,"
But there's not,
For only this says what my heart wants to say,
Jesus I love you.
You spoke and the stars were born, but now you are silent,
Under a veil of bread, high on the altar,
And I know that only this says what your heart wants to say,
To tell me you love me,
Jesus I love you too. . .
With all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength O Lord I love you.
With all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength O Lord I love you.
And so I will say no more,
I'll simply adore you,
Under a veil of bread, high on the altar,
For I know that only this says what my heart wants to say,
Jesus I love you,
Jesus I love you,
Jesus I love you.
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Once upon a time. . .
In an ancient city nestled on a hill,
A million Staten Island ferry rides from New York City,
I was sipping mocha at an old cafè,
Thinking how Saint Benedict would work and pray,
Just an hour away. . .
When little Urbania,
This town in Italia,
Breathed on my soul,
And the coals of my heart turned to fire,
And time simply slipped away,
Until there was no cafe,
But only a man,
Dressed in a robe,
Tilling the soil.
So I said “buon giorno,”
And he said “hello,”
As natural as if we were in New York City,
“Are you a Benedictine?”
“Yes, you might say so,
I founded a few monasteries centuries ago,
There was one right here, you know. . .
When little Urbania,
This pearl in Italia,
Was only a glade where we prayed by a billowing fire,
But as our brothers grew,
Soon there were others who,
Fled the falling of Rome,
To a new Christian home,
And settled this town.”
But I said “you can’t be,”
And he said, “I am,
In fact I even knew you back in New York City,
And I watched you growing and I prayed you’d see,
Christ is not some other-wordly mystery,
He is part of history. . .
In towns like Urbania,
This pearl in Italia,
So wander the cobblestone terraces, savor the art,
Fall under Puccini’s spell,
Dante, Verdi, and Raphael,
Then after the show, of course you should go,
To your favorite cafè serving latte and mocha,
Does your abbot know you’re having mocha?
Yes St. Benedict he does. . .
Well then pull up a chair my friend,
And the cafè was back again,
And we wasted an hour or four,
Discussing how Jesus is at the core,
Of this simply miraculous place,
Little Urbania. . .
In an ancient city nestled on a hill,
A million Staten Island ferry rides from New York City,
I was sipping mocha at an old cafè,
Thinking how Saint Benedict would work and pray,
Just an hour away. . .
When little Urbania,
This town in Italia,
Breathed on my soul,
And the coals of my heart turned to fire,
And time simply slipped away,
Until there was no cafe,
But only a man,
Dressed in a robe,
Tilling the soil.
So I said “buon giorno,”
And he said “hello,”
As natural as if we were in New York City,
“Are you a Benedictine?”
“Yes, you might say so,
I founded a few monasteries centuries ago,
There was one right here, you know. . .
When little Urbania,
This pearl in Italia,
Was only a glade where we prayed by a billowing fire,
But as our brothers grew,
Soon there were others who,
Fled the falling of Rome,
To a new Christian home,
And settled this town.”
But I said “you can’t be,”
And he said, “I am,
In fact I even knew you back in New York City,
And I watched you growing and I prayed you’d see,
Christ is not some other-wordly mystery,
He is part of history. . .
In towns like Urbania,
This pearl in Italia,
So wander the cobblestone terraces, savor the art,
Fall under Puccini’s spell,
Dante, Verdi, and Raphael,
Then after the show, of course you should go,
To your favorite cafè serving latte and mocha,
Does your abbot know you’re having mocha?
Yes St. Benedict he does. . .
Well then pull up a chair my friend,
And the cafè was back again,
And we wasted an hour or four,
Discussing how Jesus is at the core,
Of this simply miraculous place,
Little Urbania. . .
. . . Once upon a time.
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"The Steelers," he says, "are playing on Sunday,"
As Rosary beads sift like hourglass sand,
Through grooves in the stones that once were the fingers,
Of old Brother's Patrick's hand,
Old Brother Patrick's hand.
"The Rooneys," he adds, "are sending me tickets,"
And boyishly names all the players he's met,
And nobody says, "you already told us,"
'Cause Patrick he tends to forget,
Yes Patrick he tends to forget,
But there are things that he remembers,
The fire of '63,
When the tower bell came crashing down,
And he also knows when we have prayer,
And he's always there.
I saw him last night alone in the chapel,
His Rosary beads cascading like sand,
And somehow I thought, "perhaps our salvation,
Is resting in Patrick's hand,
Old Brother Patrick's hand."
As Rosary beads sift like hourglass sand,
Through grooves in the stones that once were the fingers,
Of old Brother's Patrick's hand,
Old Brother Patrick's hand.
"The Rooneys," he adds, "are sending me tickets,"
And boyishly names all the players he's met,
And nobody says, "you already told us,"
'Cause Patrick he tends to forget,
Yes Patrick he tends to forget,
But there are things that he remembers,
The fire of '63,
When the tower bell came crashing down,
And he also knows when we have prayer,
And he's always there.
I saw him last night alone in the chapel,
His Rosary beads cascading like sand,
And somehow I thought, "perhaps our salvation,
Is resting in Patrick's hand,
Old Brother Patrick's hand."
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Just a Nazareth Morning,
Nothing extraordinary to see at all,
Just a little boy rolling a ball of string,
At the feet of a carpenter,
A mother sowing by the hearthfire,
A raison cake upon a steaming tray,
And a little boy rolling a ball of string,
At the feet of a carpenter,
Don't blink or you'll miss it,
It's hidden like treasure that rests in a forgotten sea,
More precious than diamonds or emeralds or rubies,
Is the Holy Family.
Just a Nazareth morning,
Nothing extraordinary to see at all,
Unless you see with the eyes of faith. . .
Perfect Love.
Nothing extraordinary to see at all,
Just a little boy rolling a ball of string,
At the feet of a carpenter,
A mother sowing by the hearthfire,
A raison cake upon a steaming tray,
And a little boy rolling a ball of string,
At the feet of a carpenter,
Don't blink or you'll miss it,
It's hidden like treasure that rests in a forgotten sea,
More precious than diamonds or emeralds or rubies,
Is the Holy Family.
Just a Nazareth morning,
Nothing extraordinary to see at all,
Unless you see with the eyes of faith. . .
Perfect Love.
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I am scared of course,
He's a giant with a sword,
And I'm a ruddy youth,
Witha slingshot made of cord,
Without a helmet or a shield,
That I can call my own,
But I believe that. . .
God is bigger than that giant in the field,
And though I'm trembling now,
I refuse to yield,
To a fool who dares to taunt,
The One and Only God,
And His servant,
His servant David.
So I am no afraid to search the silver stream,
For the perfect stone,
To slay the Philistine,
I am nothing, God is all,
And He can do in me,
What I'd never do myself,
So tell King Saul, "I'm here,"
A shepherd with a sling will strike Goliath down,
And then will even bring,
His head upon a tray,
For Israel to see,
What God can do,
In someone who's,
As small as me,
Just wait and see,
Just wait and see.
He's a giant with a sword,
And I'm a ruddy youth,
Witha slingshot made of cord,
Without a helmet or a shield,
That I can call my own,
But I believe that. . .
God is bigger than that giant in the field,
And though I'm trembling now,
I refuse to yield,
To a fool who dares to taunt,
The One and Only God,
And His servant,
His servant David.
So I am no afraid to search the silver stream,
For the perfect stone,
To slay the Philistine,
I am nothing, God is all,
And He can do in me,
What I'd never do myself,
So tell King Saul, "I'm here,"
A shepherd with a sling will strike Goliath down,
And then will even bring,
His head upon a tray,
For Israel to see,
What God can do,
In someone who's,
As small as me,
Just wait and see,
Just wait and see.
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Shawn O'Malley from AveMaria3 on Vimeo.
His freckled face was shining, his placid eyes were clear,
I read a Tolstoy novel in a single, bloody tear,
That stained the snow-white handkerchief that trembled in my hand,
As I placed his tortured body in a sepulcher of sand.
"Private Shawn O'Malley" was the name upon the tag,
"Winslow, Oklahoma," etched in marker on the bag,
And sifting through his underclothes his story was revealed,
When I read a pencilled letter that he wrote and never sealed. . .
Dear Melissa, here's a poem for our anniversary,
Published on a napkin by Private Shawn O'Malley,
You can tell me if it's bad,
It's called, "Melissa, You're the Only Love I Ever Had,"
You're the only love I ever had.
I'll be home when Alice has her birthday in July,
I taped her third-grade picture to my bunked and then I fly,
High above the ocean and I kiss her every night,
Oh honey what I wouldn't give to close her Winnie-the-Pooh light.
I'd shut the door behind me and walk you to our swing,
I'd kiss your arm and fingers and then your wedding ring,
And tell you that this crazy, violent world can not destroy,
The love between a Prom Queen and her favorite soldier boy.
Dear Melissa, here's a poem for our anniversary,
Published on a napkin by Private Shawn O'Malley,
You can tell me if it's bad,
It's called, "Melissa, You're the Only Love I Ever Had,"
You're the only love I ever had.
His freckled face was shining, his placid eyes were clear,
I promised Shawn O'Malley that I'd bring his letter here,
To Winslow, Oklahoma and I'd sit here on this swing,
And tell his favorite Prom Queen that her husband was a king,
Yes Private Shawn O'Malley is a hero and a king.
I read a Tolstoy novel in a single, bloody tear,
That stained the snow-white handkerchief that trembled in my hand,
As I placed his tortured body in a sepulcher of sand.
"Private Shawn O'Malley" was the name upon the tag,
"Winslow, Oklahoma," etched in marker on the bag,
And sifting through his underclothes his story was revealed,
When I read a pencilled letter that he wrote and never sealed. . .
Dear Melissa, here's a poem for our anniversary,
Published on a napkin by Private Shawn O'Malley,
You can tell me if it's bad,
It's called, "Melissa, You're the Only Love I Ever Had,"
You're the only love I ever had.
I'll be home when Alice has her birthday in July,
I taped her third-grade picture to my bunked and then I fly,
High above the ocean and I kiss her every night,
Oh honey what I wouldn't give to close her Winnie-the-Pooh light.
I'd shut the door behind me and walk you to our swing,
I'd kiss your arm and fingers and then your wedding ring,
And tell you that this crazy, violent world can not destroy,
The love between a Prom Queen and her favorite soldier boy.
Dear Melissa, here's a poem for our anniversary,
Published on a napkin by Private Shawn O'Malley,
You can tell me if it's bad,
It's called, "Melissa, You're the Only Love I Ever Had,"
You're the only love I ever had.
His freckled face was shining, his placid eyes were clear,
I promised Shawn O'Malley that I'd bring his letter here,
To Winslow, Oklahoma and I'd sit here on this swing,
And tell his favorite Prom Queen that her husband was a king,
Yes Private Shawn O'Malley is a hero and a king.
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I'm not linguistically inclined,
I'm not the scientific kind,
I was a little left behind each day at school,
I've never cured a rare disease,
I've never sailed the seven seas,
There are no fanciful degrees upon my wall,
But I'm the prodigal son of the King,
The prodigal son of the King,
I split with the doe and blew it I know,
And even though my bro is mad,
I'm still the prodigal son, that son-of-a-gun,
Whose Father forgave everything that he's done,
The prodigal son of the King.
I've never architect a dome,
or wrote a fancy sonnet poem,
And there is nothin' at the MOMA with my name,
I'm not the grammy winnin' kind,
My name is very rarely signed,
Except on checks when creditors are at my door,
But I'm the prodigal son of the King,
The prodigal son of the King,
I split with the doe and blew it I know,
And even though my bro is mad,
I'm still the prodigal son, that son-of-a-gun,
Whose Father forgave everything that he's done,
The prodigal son of the King.
I don't deserve the bright red carpet,
Or the fatted calf,
But I'll take it!
Cause I'm the prodigal son of the King,
The prodigal son of the King,
The flowers, the trees, Caribbean seas,
Easily fit in His Hand,
And I'm His prodigal son,
That son-of-a-gun,
Whose Father's the Father and Spirit and Son,
The prodigal son of the King.
I'm not the scientific kind,
I was a little left behind each day at school,
I've never cured a rare disease,
I've never sailed the seven seas,
There are no fanciful degrees upon my wall,
But I'm the prodigal son of the King,
The prodigal son of the King,
I split with the doe and blew it I know,
And even though my bro is mad,
I'm still the prodigal son, that son-of-a-gun,
Whose Father forgave everything that he's done,
The prodigal son of the King.
I've never architect a dome,
or wrote a fancy sonnet poem,
And there is nothin' at the MOMA with my name,
I'm not the grammy winnin' kind,
My name is very rarely signed,
Except on checks when creditors are at my door,
But I'm the prodigal son of the King,
The prodigal son of the King,
I split with the doe and blew it I know,
And even though my bro is mad,
I'm still the prodigal son, that son-of-a-gun,
Whose Father forgave everything that he's done,
The prodigal son of the King.
I don't deserve the bright red carpet,
Or the fatted calf,
But I'll take it!
Cause I'm the prodigal son of the King,
The prodigal son of the King,
The flowers, the trees, Caribbean seas,
Easily fit in His Hand,
And I'm His prodigal son,
That son-of-a-gun,
Whose Father's the Father and Spirit and Son,
The prodigal son of the King.
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The Divine Nativity is a new, full length musical written by Fr. Elijah. It narrates the story of the birth of Christ. Recordings of the music are available below. |
ACT I
SCENE 1: PROLOGUE
SCENE 2: THE ESPOUSALS
SCENE 3: ANNUNCIATION TO VISITATION
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ACT IISCENE 1: JOSEPH'S TRIAL
SCENE 2: ON THE ROAD TO BETHLEHEM
SCENE 3: BETHLEHEM
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Some other songs in video format. . .
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