| In raiment coarse and rough endued
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| A cord his only ceinture rude
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| With scanty measure for his food
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| His feet withal unshod
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| For the poverty of Christ he yearns
|
| From earthly splendor he dost turn
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| This noble troubadour has spurned
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| Despising all for God
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| Within a mountain cave alone
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| He hides to weep and lying prone
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| He prays aloud with sigh and groan
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| For peace to fill his heart
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| New signs of highest sanctity
|
| Singing praise exceedingly
|
| Beautiful and wondrous to see
|
| The troubadour to sing
|
| The troubadour of the Great King
|
| Then seraph-like in heaven’s height
|
| The King of Kings appears in sight
|
| His soul in passion’s awesome night
|
| Beholds the vision dread
|
| For it bears the wounds of Christ and lo
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| While gazing on a speechless woe
|
| The hidden marks upon his soul
|
| Now wound his flesh blood red
|
| His body now like the Crucified
|
| Signed on hands and feet and side
|
| Transformed in life to love and die
|
| With Jesus Christ our Lord
|
| New signs of highest sanctity
|
| Singing praise exceedingly
|
| Beautiful and wondrous to see
|
| The troubadour to sing
|
| The troubadour of the Great King
|
| Within his soul songs secret sound
|
| To silent melodies abound
|
| Caught up to God this singer found
|
| His song and he understood |