Our Lady, you are our noblest hero,
we swing our incense smoke for your
reply
from the paradise in which you supply
our needs and our commands, how
blithely so
do we insist on our own proven low
calculations, buying time on earth by
earning sterile bleak favours from God.
My
home torn asunder with each gothic
blow,
I was on my knees now to watch the fire
bludgeon the sky with inhuman cruelty.
We sang as city incarnadine burned,
with its altruistic Catholic spire;
we wept as Christ's face in ash was
beauty,
as against us the broken stone face turned.
