Classic Poem

Let Alverna's holy mountain
That high mystery proclaim,
Of the stamps of life eternal
Which on blessed Francis came;
While he sobb'd, and while he sigh'd,
Grieving for the Crucified.

There, within a lonely cavern,
Far from all the world withdrawn,
As the Saint his watch was keeping,
With incessant scourgings torn;
Ever musing more and more
On the wounds that Jesus bore; —

As he pray'd in cold and hunger;
As he pour'd his glowing tears;
In his fervent spirit mounting
Far above terrestrial spheres,
Every earthly thing forgot
In his Saviour's bitter lot; —

Lo to him, in form seraphic,
Borne upon a cross on high,
Six irradiant wings expanding,
Came the King of glory nigh!
Gazing on him with a face
Of benignity and grace.

He that tender glance returning,
Saw th' Incarnate Light of Light;
Saw his gracious meek Redeemer,
Rob'd in glory infinite;
Drank the words that from Him fell, —
Words divine, unspeakable!

Straightway all the sacred summit
Kindles like a flaming pyre;
Holy Francis sinks enraptur'd,
Fainting with ecstatic fire;
And upon his flesh appear
Christ's immortal stigmata!

Honour to the high Redeemer,
Who for us in torments died;
In whose image blessed Francis
Suffer'd and was sanctified,
Counting every thing but loss
For the glory of the Cross.