Per Christum genitum, summe Pater, tuum,
  in quo visibilis stat tibi gloria,
  qui noster Dominus, qui tuus unicus
  spirat de patrio corde paraclitum. 160

  Per quem splendor, honos, laus, sapientia,

maiestas, bonitas, et pietas tua
regnum continuat numine triplici
texens perpetuis secula seculis.

V. Hymn for the lighting of the lamps

Blest Lord, Creator of the glowing light,
At Whose behest the hours successive move,
The sun has set:  black darkness broods above: 
Christ! light Thy faithful through the coming night.

Thy courts are lit with stars unnumbered,
And in the cloudless vault the pale moon rides;
Yet Thou dost bid us seek the fire that hides
Till swift we strike it from its flinty bed.

  So man may learn that in Christ’s body came
    The hidden hope of light to mortals given: 
    He is the Rock—­’tis His own word—­that riven
  Sends forth to all our race the eternal flame.

  From lamps that brim with rich and fragrant oil,
    Or torches dry this heaven-sent fire we feed;
    Or make us rushlights from the flowering reed
  And wax, whereon the bees have spent their toil.

  Bright glows the light, whether the resin thick
    Of pine-brand flares, or waxen tapers burn
    With melting radiance, or the hollow urn
  Yields its stored sweetness to the thirsty wick.

  Beneath the might of fire, in slow decay
    The scented tears of glowing nectar fall;
    Lower and lower droops the candle tall
  And ever dwindling weeps itself away.

  So by Thy gifts, great Father, hearth and hall
    Are all ablaze with points of twinkling light
    That vie with daylight spent; and vanquished Night
  Rends, as she flies away, her sable pall.

  Who knoweth not that from high Heaven first came
    Our light, from God Himself the rushing fire? 
    For Moses erst, amid the prickly brier,
  Saw God made manifest in lambent flame.

  Ah, happy he! deemed worthy face to face
    To see heaven’s Lord within that sacred brake;
    Bidden the sandals from his feet to take,
  Nor with his shoon defile that holy place.

  The mighty children of the chosen name,
    Saved by the merits of their sires, and free
    After long years of savage tyranny,
  Through the drear desert followed still that flame.

  Striking their camp beneath the silent night
    Where’er they went, to lead their darkling way,
    The cloud of glory lent its guiding ray
  And shone more splendid than the noonday light.

  But, mad with jealous fury, Egypt’s king
    Calls his great host to battle for their lord: 
    Swiftly the cohorts gather at his word,
  And down the mail-clad lines the clarions ring.

  Girding their trusty swords the warriors go
    To fill the ranks; hoarse bugles rend the air;
    These seize their massy javelins, these prepare
  The death-winged arrow and the Cretan bow.