The pioneer has laid her burden down,
And traded healing hands for heavenly crown.
Seventy-five seasons of grace upon the earth,
A life of quiet dignity, of consecrated worth.
Through the early dawn, she walked the narrow way,
A foundational pillar, a beacon in her day.
As a Sister of Mary, Mother of the Church, she stood,
An anchor of devotion, a force for every good.
For decades, where the weary sought relief,
She stood beside the bedside, softening their grief.
At Abor’s Sacred Heart, her longest watch was kept
She comforted the broken, and prayed while others slept.
The white of her habit, the care in her touch,
A daughter of mercy who loved so very much.
No night was too dark, no duty too severe,
For the nurse who brought Christ’s healing near.
From the humble wards where the quiet prayers ascend,
To the grandest halls where holy blessings blend
Even Rome took notice of the servant in the field,
To the tireless devotion her quiet life revealed.
A Papal honour bestowed upon her name,
Not for worldly vanity or passing earthly fame,
But a grateful Church acknowledging the grace,
Of Christ’s own love reflected in her face.
Now the corridors are quiet, the earthly race is run,
The Great Physician whispers, “Servant, well done.”
Rest now, Sister Arcade, beneath the Saviour’s sight,
Your papal crown is fading, replaced by heaven’s light.
Good and faithful servant, fare thee well
Our hope is in the Lord as we parted ways beneath a spell
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