Who could have seen upon her little face
the pain that God’s great wisdom would allow
For this young maid, just dancing, filled with grace,
bedecked with crowns and chains of daisies now.
The gentle light of heav’n upon her brow,
Her dark curls shine beneath a sunrise bright—
What childlike joy to twirl, gavotte, and bow.
What simple souls you raise into your light!
The years have fled and now she, clothed in lace,
Before the altar where all angels bow,
Receives her Lord, delights in His embrace:
The first-fruits of a soul put to his plow.
A vision she receives, and makes her vow
Before His face, her little flame burns bright.
What then in heav’n or earth as great as Thou?
What simple souls you raise into your light!
From kingly halls, this honor to her race
embolden with the Spirit at her prow,
Sets out to poppied fields ‘twixt shield and mace
To serve the King of Heav’n as she knows how.
The golden sun on silver-crested brow:
And England awed bows low before the sight,
though proud, before a maiden, they kowtow.
What simple souls you raise into your light!
A martyr’s death will Jeanne in joy embrace,
The shame-faced foes, her virtue disavow,
Their spittled scorns despise her holy face,
a crimson light then fall upon her brow.
Red flames rise high, consuming piney bough:
“Lift high the Cross: let flames not hide that sight.”
Her Lover she receives, fulfills her vow.
What simple souls you raise into your light!
Soul, your presumption you must disallow,
who in your pride pretend you know aright.
But, humbled dust, see God’s hand at the plow.
What simple souls you raise into your light!
✠
Photo by Jean-Luc Benazet