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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 |
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Notes: From VCXXXIV:294. See also B S1:34:102; in MS V2; Valgrisi 34. Translation: Bainton 202. Key |
