Benedictus

Blessed is he.

Blessed is he who vibrates in your ecstasy, O God,

who loves his fellow man with the poignancy of his own beloved.

Cradle him who trembles with this love

whose words falter and fail him

but whose voice grasps toward your divinity

and yearns to join the hymn of the earth—

the cries of the midnight fox, the owl’s moon song,

the morning dove’s benevolent sighs.

Blessed is he who loves each man’s soul with the tenderness of his own child,

as a flock of birds alights the heart as the embers of a lover’s eyes,

as the translucent skin of clouds.

Blessed is he whose substance wanes, whose body disintegrates

and fuses with the verdant hills,

with the paradise of roses climbing amongst crumbling rock.

Blessed is he who lets his heart be crushed,

as chalky eggshells crumble, with love for his brother.

Blessed the ancient mountains the spring blossoms returning in their joy.

Blessed is this life, O God, you have granted him—

a mouth to love, teeth to bite sweet fruit,

a tender tongue to taste wine,

feet to walk the endless earth,

eyes to worship the eternal sun,

a voice to shout in exultation.

Pray he will keep this voice until his dying day,

when he opens his frail body to embrace you in all your glory:

Hosanna in Excelsis Deo!

After Poulenc's Mass in G, Benedictus