The noblest Lord hangs from the hard wood for
our ruthless crimes, yet from such courage
the sad heart fails to gather strength, to be
good--if but His hanging could transform us.
In the beginning was the word--God's words
made all things, life, its beautiful patterns--
afterwards His blood streamed across the sky,
colored all, for love He gave His life thus.
Set fire to my soul, let me live, give
my mind food, the reward of Your light, raise,
build and strengthen my chastened desires.
May countless red-hot knives pierce me too, dig
deep, leave raw wounds--I want to feel these, take
eternal life from His way of dying.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V LXX:230. See also B S1:6:88; R XXII:442-3. Key