When our Lord's arms were stretched taut, covered the cross,
when He fell forward, hung suffocating--
a heavy weight made him fall--what key closed
Heaven's gate then, why didn't it open?
Was it only out of pity for us
He endured such cruelty--alas, it's
right His innocent blood should wash away
the stain spread, soaked into this vicious world.
He is the author of peace, rest from war,
quiet is found in him, yet He exists
in a brilliant light which blinds our eyes.
God the Father's mysteries are hidden
the veil drawn up when and how He decides.
Let it suffice to know He cannot err.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V LXVI:225. See also B S1:47:108; no MSs; Valgrisi 47. Translation: Bainton 208. A sixth in a series meditating Christ. Key