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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 |
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Notes: From V LVII:217. See B S1:30:100. MS's: V2 (Caruso f.31v), L (Tordi 8r); Valgrisi 30. Key |
