Like Jesus Christ in the garden, the Church
is in anguish, stumbling, deflowered:
the moors strip her from the south
and a savage bear claws her from the north.
By
cruel hands her sons are snatched from port,
while winds blow all of the heresy
and vice and sin the world creates
as rats begin to devour the dead.
God
halts all with lightning from his left hand,
observe the wounds of his sacred Son,
from which flow four fonts of paradise,
which can still replenish the world:
from on high He sees
Saint Francis born in the city of Assisi.
Barcelona, May 29th 1895.
Jacint Verdaguer, from Sant Fransech: Poema
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