The Word of God came forth to nest,
Within the womb of Virgin Blessed,
And there secured the very form,
With which He dwelt upon the earth
To scrutinize the world forlorn.
In Sion’s midst, He did survey.
His parents feared He went astray,
They sought his frame for all the day,
Once lost, now found. In rugged youth,
In Father’s house, he’d gone to pray.
On last return, he looked again,
Upon the hill, Jerusalem,
In sadness deep, divine regret,
He spoke the fall of Temple tall,
Downfall foretold, He sorely wept.
He fixed his tears upon the Cross,
To mend our wound, our weighty loss;
His flesh pierced through, His blood poured out,
Angelic hosts released the shout:
“The purpose met: Death put to rout.”
This day He gives His Body whole,
His precious Blood, His mighty soul,
On altar white, he lays the cure,
For every sin, for every snare;
A living source, a fountain pure.
(by Steven Guillotte)