| Neale's original translation | Newer translation |
|---|---|
| Jesus, kind above all other, | Jesus, good above all other, Jesus, cradled in a manger, |
risen Master, death defying,
Lord in heaven, thy grace supplying,
keep us to thy presence near.
Jesus, who our sorrows bearest,
all our thoughts and hopes thou sharest,
thou to man the truth declarest;
help us all thy truth to hear.
Lord, in all our doings guide us;
pride and hate shall never divide us;
we'll go on with thee beside us,
and with joy we'll persevere!
Adam of St. Victor's original hymn with translation
| Latin lyrics | English translation |
|---|---|
Missus Gabriel de caelis, | Gabriel, sent from heaven to carry, |
Labels: 12th c., christmas, marian, Neale
¶ Saturday, October 06, 2007 0 comments
focus of God's glory bright,
shed on us a shining ray.
Father of the fatherless,
giver of gifts limitless,
come and touch our hearts today.
Source of strength and sure relief,
Comforter in time of grief,
enter in and be our guest.
On our journey grant us aid,
freshening breeze and cooling shade,
in our labor inward rest.
Enter each aspiriting heart,
occupy its inmost part
with Your dazzling purity.
All that gives to us our worth,
all that benefits the earth,
You bring to maturity.
With your soft, refreshing rains
break our drought, remove our stains;
bind up all our injuries.
Shake with rushing wind our will;
melt with fire our icy chill;
bright to light our perjuries.
As your promise we believe,
make us ready to receive
gifts from your unbounded store.
Grant enabling energy,
courage in adversity,
joys that last forevermore.
Labels: 12th c., latin, pentecost
¶ Friday, May 18, 2007 0 comments
come with Thy celestial light;
pour on us thy love divine.
Come, Protector of the poor;
Come, thou source of blessing sure;
Come within our hearts to shine.
Thou of comforters the best,
Thou, the sou's most welcome guest,
Of our peace thou art the sign.
In our labor, be our aid;
In our Summer, cooling shade.
Every bitter tear refine.
Brighter than the noonday sun,
fill our lives which Christ has won;
fill our hearts and make them Thine.
Where Thou art not, we have nought.
All our word and deed and though
twisted from Thy true design.
Bend the stubborn heart and will.
Melt the frozen, warm the chill.
Rule us by Thy judgment's line.
Cleanse us with Thy healing power.
What is barren bring to flower.
To Thy love our sins consign.
To Thy people who adore
and confess Thee evermore,
Thy blest sevenfold gift assign.
Frant us thy salvation, Lord,
boundless mercy our reward,
joys which earth and heaven entwine.
Labels: 12th c., latin, pentecost
¶ Friday, May 18, 2007 0 comments
 Charles Wesley (1707-1788) | Words: Charles Wesley, 1739. Stanzas 8-10, author unknown, 14th Century; translated from Latin to English in Lyra Davidica. This exuberant song is one of the most popular Easter hymns in the English language. Music: Easter Hymn, composer unknown, in Lyra Davidica (London: 1708) (MIDI, score). Wesley’s words were written for use at the first worship service at the Wesleyan Chapel in London. The chapel, on the site of a former iron foundry, became known as the Foundry Meeting House, and this hymn was included in the Foundry Collection. |
|  |
C G/B C F F/C-C C-Dm7 C--F C--G C
F C F C Dm7 C C/G-G C-Dm7 C--F C--G C
G Am G/B G C Dm7 C G Am7 G--C G D G
(G) C F F/C-C C-F Dm7 C--G C
Labels: 12th c., chords, latin, wesley
¶ Monday, April 02, 2007 0 comments
Tune: St. Alphege, Werde munter
Brief life is here our portion;
brief sorrow, short lived care;
the life that knows no ending,
the tearless life, is there.
There grief is turned to pleasure;
such pleasure as below
no human voice can utter,
no human heart can know.
The morning shall awaken,
the shadows flee away,
and each truehearted servant
shall shine as doth the day.
There God, our King and Portion,
in fullness of his grace,
shall we behold for ever,
and worship face to face.
O one, O only mansion,
O Paradise of joy,
where tears are ever banished,
and smiles have no alloy;
the Lamb is all thy splendor,
the Crucified thy praise;
his laud and benediction
thy ransomed people raise.
O sweet and blessed country,
the home of God's elect!
O sweet and blessed country,
that eager hearts expect!
Jesus, in mercy bring us,
to that dear land of rest;
who art, with God the Father,
and Spirit, ever blest.
Labels: 12th c., bernard of cluny, Neale
¶ Monday, August 21, 2006 0 comments
Tune: O quanta qualia
O what their joy and their glory must be,
those endless Sabbaths the blessŠd ones see;
crown for the valiant, to weary ones rest:
God shall be All, and in all ever blest.
What are the Monarch, his court and his throne?
What are the peace and the joy that they own?
O that the blest ones, who in it have share,
all that they feel could as fully declare!
Truly, "Jerusalem" name we that shore,
city of peace that brings joy evermore;
wish and fulfillment are not severed there,
nor do things prayed for come short of the prayer.
There, where no troubles distraction can bring,
we the sweet anthems of Zion shall sing;
while for thy grace, Lord, their voices of praise
thy blessŠd people eternally raise.
Now, in the meantime, with hearts raised on high,
we for that country must yearn and must sigh,
seeking Jerusalem, dear native land,
through our long exile on Babylon's strand.
Low before him with our praises we fall,
of whom and in whom and through whom are all;
of whom, the Father; and in whom, the Son;
and through whom, the Spirit, with them ever One.
Labels: 12th c., Neale, Peter Abelard
¶ Sunday, May 28, 2006 0 comments
In sacrifice to die;
Is this Thy sorrow nought to us
Who pass unheeding by?
Our sins, not thine, Thou bearest, Lord;
Make us Thy sorrow feel,
'Till through our pity and our shame
Love answers Love's appeal.
This is Earth's darkest hour, but Thou
Dost light and life retore;
Then let all praise be given Thee
Who livest evermore.
- Peter Abelard, 12th c.
Labels: 12th c., Peter Abelard
¶ Friday, March 03, 2006 0 comments
defiled and put to scorn;
O kingly head surrounded
with mocking crown of thorn:
What sorrow mars thy grandeur?
Can death thy bloom deflower?
O countenance whose splendor
the hosts of heaven adore!
Thy beauty, long-desirèd,
hath vanished from our sight;
thy power is all expirèd,
and quenched the light of light.
Ah me! for whom thou diest,
hide not so far thy grace:
show me, O Love most highest,
the brightness of thy face.
I pray thee, Jesus, own me,
me, Shepherd good, for thine;
who to thy fold hast won me,
and fed with truth divine.
Me guilty, me refuse not,
incline thy face to me,
this comfort that I lose not,
on earth to comfort thee.
In thy most bitter passion
my heart to share doth cry,
with thee for my salvation
upon the cross to die.
Ah, keep my heart thus moved
to stand thy cross beneath,
to mourn thee, well-beloved,
yet thank thee for thy death.
My days are few, O fail not,
with thine immortal power,
to hold me that I quail not
in death's most fearful hour;
that I may fight befriended,
and see in my last strife
to me thine arms extended
upon the cross of life.
Am F Dm C G C / E Am E Am / F Dm C G C / E Am E Am
Em F G F C / F A7 Dm A / D7 G C G D G / C F G C
Labels: 12th c., Bernard of Clairvaux, chords
¶ Thursday, March 02, 2006 0 comments
Oh Blessed Holy Mother,
make the wounds of thy only son,
unto my heart imprinted.
Mother bowed with grief appalling must thou watch, with tears slow falling, on the cross Thy dying son!
Through my heart, thus sorrow riven, must that cruel sword be driven, as foretold - O Holy One!
Oh, how mournful and oppressed was that Mother ever-blessed, Mother of the Spotless One:
She, whose grieving was perceiving, contemplating, unabating, all the anguish of her Son!
Is there any, tears withholding, Christ's dear Mother thus beholding, in woe - like no other woe!
Who that would not grief be feeling for that Holy Mother kneeling - what suffering was ever so?
For the sins of every nation she beheld his tribulation, given to scourgers for a prey:
Saw her Jesus foully taken, languishing, by all forsaken, when his spirit passed away.
Love's sweet fountain, Mother tender, haste this hard heart, soft to render, make me sharer in Thy pain.
Fire me now with zeal so glowing, love so rich to Jesus, flowing, that I favor may obtain.
Holy Mother, I implore Thee, crucify this heart before Thee, guilty it is verily!
Hate, misprision, scorn, derision, thirst assailing, failing vision, railing, ailing, deal to me.
In Thy keeping, watching, weeping, by the cross may I unsleeping live and sorrow for his sake.
Close to Jesus, with Thee kneeling, all Thy dolours with Thee feeling, oh grant this - the prayer I make.
Maid immaculate, excelling, peerless one, in heav'n high dwelling, make me truly mourn with Thee.
Make me sighing hear Him dying, ever newly vivifying the anguish He bore for me.
With the same scar lacerated, by the cross enfired, elated, wrought by love to ecstasy!
Thus inspired and affected let me, Virgin, be protected when sounds forth the call for me!
May his sacred cross defend me, he who died there so befriend me, that His pardon shall suffice.
When this earthly frame is riven, grant that to my soul is given all the joys of Paradise! ¶ Thursday, March 02, 2006
Bernard of Morlas, c. 1145; tr. by John Neale, 1858
| Brief life is here our portion; Brief sorrow, short-lived care. The life that knows no ending, The tearless life, is there. O happy retribution: Short toil, eternal rest; For mortals and for sinners A mansion with the blest! 2. There grief is turned to pleasure; 3. And now we fight the battle, | 4. But He whom now we trust in Shall then be seen and known; And they that know and see Him Shall have Him for their own. And there is David's fountain And life in fullest glow; And there the light is golden, And milk and honey flow. 5. The morning shall awaken, 6. O sweet and blessed country, |
Labels: 12th c., bernard of morlas, Neale
¶ Thursday, March 02, 2006 0 comments
Bernard of Morlas, c. 1140, tr. by John M. Neale, 1849
| The world is very evil, The times are waxing late; Be sober and keep vigil, The Judge is at the gate; The Judge that comes in mercy, The Judge that comes with might, To terminate the evil, To diadem the right. 2. Arise, arise, good Christian, | 3. O home of fadeless splendor, Of flow'rs that bear no thorn, Where they shall dwell as children Who here as exiles mourn. Midst pow'r that knows no limit, Where knowledge has no bound, The beatific vision Shall glad the saints around. 4. Strive, man, to win that glory; |
| 5. O sweet and blessed country, The home of God's elect! O sweet and blessed country That eager hearts expect! Jesus, in mercy bring us To that dear land of rest, Who art, with God the Father And Spirit, ever blest. |
Labels: 12th c., bernard of morlas, Neale
¶ Thursday, March 02, 2006 0 comments