Whence in ecstasy uprising,
Things of carnal sense despising,
And the clouds of error's night:
On the True Sun's truest vision
Soaring high, with full fruition,
Fix'd he fast his eagle sight.
Sense is naught, if style it slighteth:
He with style so subtle writeth,
And with sense so Catholic,
That the Word's true Incarnation
Never more can meet negation
From the wile of heretic.
Word, ineffably creative,
Which with Virtue generative
All things made at earth's foundation:
That same Word, from John we gather,
Is not severed from the Father
Save by personal relation.
Him, Whom Matthew, more than other,
Sets forth, fed by spotless Mother,
Born for pain and woe discloses:
Whom Luke's pen, true ox-horn, showeth
On the Cross whence healing floweth,
As the serpent raised by Moses:
