I seem to see His sacred torch aflame;
God's breath lights the fire sweeping across
this earth: the stench burnt away, old habits
cast out, and the true church, the soul, reborn.
Already politic warriors have
decided whose peace will win, everyone thinks
war's in his interest: so each arms himself,
eager to try to master the moment.
Already one hears God's trumpets call out;
they whose gods were greed, family name, defy
death; their idol, the helmet's feather.
You cannot hide your depravity from
His penetrating light harbouring in
the heart willing to change his life and ways.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From VCXXXIV:294. See also B S1:34:102; in MS V2; Valgrisi 34. Translation: Bainton 202. Key