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On that high peak where God showed Himself, what
He is and means, I seemed to see the cross, the emblem of a harsh, vicious way of inflicting death through which He gave to us a sweet eternal life to come. So clear, intensely lucid, welcome was this dream joy was mine, when I heard somewhere far off echoing wails, grief, that we here scorn, no, mock that cross. Maybe our walls, our clothing, our faces honor Him, but no mind can come near in shade, tinct, or word His splendor. We must therefore pray, hands clasped--don't scorn us, however justly, don't let us become prey to an even more impious people. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V LV:215. See also B S1:68:119 and MS V2 and Valgrisi 67. Key |
