While my tongue burns with love, oh Lord, dry, hot

While my tongue burns with love, oh Lord, dry, hot
let me understand how scarce and poor were
all the remedies for men but that You
became a man down on this earth, Yourself

bled on the cross. We've seen You there, naked,
white from lost blood, your enemies helpless,
their fierce claws broken, scattered, no longer
boasting of that contagious snake's first lie.

A new sort of victory, a remade
Victoria who wins by open need,
He's chained to free us--look, there, the snares taken

away. A strange splendor in death, a new pride
in humiliation, God Himself performs
for us, the aching satisfied conquest

An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition
Notes:
From V LVII:217. See B S1:30:100. MS's: V2 (Caruso f.31v), L (Tordi 8r); Valgrisi 30. Key

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