At Vespers: Common of
many martyrs: unknown: perhaps 8th Century
Sanctórum méritis ínclita gáudia
pangámus, sócii, géstaque fórtia;
nam gliscit ánimus prómere cántibus
victórum
genus óptimum.
Hi sunt quos rétinens mundus inhórruit,
ipsum nam stérili flore peráridum
sprevére pénitus teque secúti sunt,
rex,
Christe, bone cælitum.
Hi pro te fúrias sævaque sústinent;
non murmur résonat, non querimónia,
sed corde tácito mens bene cónscia
consérvat patiéntiam.
Quæ vox, quæ póterit lingua retéxere
quæ tu martýribus múnera præparas?
Rubri nam flúido sánguine láureis
ditántur
bene fúlgidis.
Te, trina Déitas únaque, póscimus,
ut culpas ábluas, nóxia súbtrahas,
des pacem fámulis, nos quoque glóriam
per
cuncta tibi sæcula. Amen.
Friends, let us sing the glorious joys of the
merits of the saints and their brave deeds; our soul is eager to relate in song
this line of great victors. These are those whom the world rejected and hated
because they spurned completely the dry flowerless world and followed you, O
Christ, the good King of heavenly dwellers. These for you withstood anger and
cruelty without protest or complaint, but with a silent heart and good
conscience they persevered in patience. What voice or tongue can tell the gifts
you have prepared for your martyrs. Red with the flow of blood they are given
bright laurels. To you, triune and one
God, we pray that you will wash us from our sins, drive far way all that is
harmful, grant peace to your servants and also grant that we give you glory
forever. Amen.
John Mason Neale
The merits of the saints,
Blessèd for evermore,
Their love that never faints,
The toils they bravely bore—
For these the Church today
Pours forth her joyous lay—
These victors win the noblest bay.
They, whom the world of ill,
While it yet held, abhorred;
Its withering flowers that still
They spurned with one accord—
They knew them short lived all,
And followed at Thy call,
King Jesu, to Thy heavenly hall.
Like sheep their blood they poured,
And without groan or tear,
They bent before the sword,
For that their King most dear:
Their souls, serenely blest,
In patience they possessed,
And looked in hope towards their rest.
What tongue may here declare,
Fancy or thought descry,
The joys Thou dost prepare
For these Thy saints on high!
Empurpled in the flood
Of their victorious blood,
They won the laurel from their God.
To Thee, O Lord most high,
One in three Persons still,
To pardon us we cry,
And to preserve from ill:
Here give Thy servants peace,
Hereafter glad release,
And pleasures that shall never cease.
Amen.
Blessèd for evermore,
Their love that never faints,
The toils they bravely bore—
For these the Church today
Pours forth her joyous lay—
These victors win the noblest bay.
They, whom the world of ill,
While it yet held, abhorred;
Its withering flowers that still
They spurned with one accord—
They knew them short lived all,
And followed at Thy call,
King Jesu, to Thy heavenly hall.
Like sheep their blood they poured,
And without groan or tear,
They bent before the sword,
For that their King most dear:
Their souls, serenely blest,
In patience they possessed,
And looked in hope towards their rest.
What tongue may here declare,
Fancy or thought descry,
The joys Thou dost prepare
For these Thy saints on high!
Empurpled in the flood
Of their victorious blood,
They won the laurel from their God.
To Thee, O Lord most high,
One in three Persons still,
To pardon us we cry,
And to preserve from ill:
Here give Thy servants peace,
Hereafter glad release,
And pleasures that shall never cease.
Amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment