Imprimi Potest, Nihil Obstat, Imprimatur, 1950


The Cross in mystery
Is veiled for us below;
Without great light to see,
Who shall its splendor know?
Alone the lofty mind
Shall this high secret trace;
And none shall heaven find
Who grasps it not by grace.

Nature the Cross abhors;
Reason gives it a frown;
The learned man ignores It.
 Satan tears it down.
Despite a pious art,
Even the fervent soul
Oft takes it not to heart,
But plays the liar's role.

Essential is the Tree,
And we who know its cost
Must mount to Calvary
Or languish and be lost.
As Saint Augustine states
With outcry ominous,
We all are reprobates
Unless God chastens us.

Its Necessity

One road to Heaven runs:
The highway of the Cross.
It was the royal Son's,
His road to life from loss.
And every stone of it
That guides the pilgrim's feet
Is chiseled fair to fit
In Zion's holy street.

Vain is the victory
Of him who, conquering
The world, lacks mastery
Of self through suffering;
Vain if he has not Christ,
Slain Christ, for exemplar,
Or spurns the Sacrificed
For dread of wound and scar.

Its Victories

Christ's Cross, restraining Hell,
Has conquered Eden's curse,
 Stormed Satan's citadel,
And won the universe.
Now to His faithful band
He gives that weapon bright
To arm both heart and hand
Against the evil sprite.

In this auspicious Sign
Thou shalt be conqueror,
Said He to Constantine,
Who that proud Standard bore;
 A glorious augury,
Of whose prodigious worth
The records all agree
In Heaven and on earth!

Its Glory and Merit

Despite deceitful sense
And reason's fickle shift,
The Cross with confidence
We take as Truth's own gift.
A princess there we see
In whom, let faith confess,
We find all charity,
Grace, wisdom, holiness.
God's love could not resist
Such beauty or its plea,
Which bade Him keep a tryst
With our humanity.
Coming to earth, He said:
This, Lord, and nothing more:
Thy saving Cross imbed
Here in My bosom's core.

He took it, found it fair,
An object not of shame
But honor, made it share
His love's most tender flame.
From childhood's morning hour
His longing kept in sight
As beauty would a flower
The Cross of His delight.

At last in its caress
Long sought for eagerly,
He died of tenderness
And love's totality.
That dear supreme baptism
For which His heart had cried,
The Cross became His chrism,
 Love's object undenied.
Christ called the Fisherman
A Satan scandalous
When he but winced to scan
What Christ would bear for us.
Christ's Cross we may adore,
His Mother we may not.
O mystery and more!
a marvel beyond thought!
This Cross, now scattered wide
On earth, shall one day rise
Transported, glorified,
To the celestial skies.
Upon a cloudy height
The Cross, full-brillianted,
 Shall, by its very sight,
Judge both the quick and dead.

Revenge, the Cross will cry
Against its sullen foes;
Pardon and joy on high
And blessedness for those
Of proved fidelity
In the immortal throng,
Singing its victory
With universal song.

In life the Saints aspired
To nothing but the Cross;
'Twas all that they desired,
Counting all else but loss.
Each one, in discontent
With such afflictions sore
As chastening Heaven sent,
Condemned himself to more.

St. Peter, prison-chained,
Had greater glory there
Than when at Rome he gained
The first Christ-Vicar's chair.
Saint Andrew, faithful, cried:
O good Cross, let me yield
To thee and in thee hide,
Where death in Life is sealed.

See how the great St. Paul
Depicts with meagre gloss
His rapture mystical,
But glories in the Cross.
More admirable far,
More merit-rich is he,
Behind his dungeon bar
Than in his ecstasy.

Its Effects

Without a Cross, the soul
Is cowardly and tame;
Like fire to a coal
The Cross sets it aflame.
One who has suffered not,
In ignorance is bound;
Only in pain's hard lot
Is holy wisdom found.

A soul untried is poor
In value; new, untrained,
With destiny unsure
And little wisdom gained.
O sweetness sovereign
Which the afflicted feels
When pleased that to his pain
No human solace steals!
'Tis by the Cross alone
God's blessing is conferred,
And His forgiveness known
In the absolving word.
He wants all things to bear
The mark of that great seal;
Without it, nought is fair
To Him, no beauty real.

Wherever place is given
The Cross, things once profane
Become instinct with Heaven
And shed away their stain.
On breast and brow, God's sign,
Worn proudly for His sake,
Will bless with Power Divine
Each task we undertake.

It is our surety,
Our one protection,
Our hope's white purity,
Our soul's perfection.
So precious is its worth
That Angels fain would bring
The blest soul back to earth
To share our suffering.

This Sign has such a charm
That at the altar-stone
The priest can God disarm
And draw Him from His throne.
Over the sacred Host
This mighty Sign he plays,
Signals the Holy Ghost,
And the Divine obeys.

With this adorable Sign
A fragrance is diffused
Most exquisite and fine,
A perfume rarely used.
The consecrated priest
Makes Him this offering
As incense from the East,
Meet crown for Heaven's King.
Eternal Wisdom still
Sifts our poor human dross
For one whose heart and will
Is worthy of the Cross,
Still seeks one spirit rare
Whose every pulse and breath
Is fortitude to bear
The Christ-Cross until death.

Ardent Apostrophe

O Cross, let me be hushed;
In speech I thee abase.
Let my presumption, crushed,
Its insolence erase.
Since thee I have received
Imperfectly, in part,
Forgive me, friend aggrieved,
For my unwilling heart!

Dear Cross, here in this hour,
I bow to thee in awe.
Abide with me in power
And teach me all thy law.
My princess, let me glow
With ardor in thine arms;
Grant me to chastely know
The secret of thy charms.

In seeing thee so fair,
I hunger to possess
Thy beauty, but I dare
Not in my faithlessness.
Come, mistress, by thy will
Arouse my feeble soul
And I will give thee still
A heart renewed and whole.

For life I choose thee now,
My pleasure, honor, friend,
Sole object of my vow,
Sole joy to which I tend.
For mercy's sake, print, trace
Yourself upon my heart,
My arm, my forehead, face;
And not one blush will start.

Above all I possess
I choose thy poverty;
And for my tenderness
Thy sweet austerity.
Now be thy folly wise
And all thy holy shame
As grandeur in my eyes,
My glory and my fame.

When, by your majesty,
And for your glory's sake,
You shall have vanquished me,
That conquest I shall take
As final victory,
Though worthy not to fall
Beneath thy blows, or be
A mockery to all.

English Rendition by Clifford J. Laube, Litt.D.



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