Magnificat written by Saint John Paul II
Magnificat written by Saint John Paul II
Adore, my soul, the glory of your Lord,
the Father of great Poetry, so full of goodness.
He fortified my youth with admired rhythm,
my song, on an oak anvil, has forged.
Resound, my soul, with the glory of your Lord,
Maker of angelic Knowledge, benevolent Maker.
I drain the wine glass to the brim, with gratitude,
at Your heavenly feast – like a praying servant –
because you strangely enchanted my youth,
because from a linden trunk you carved a rosy form.
You are the Wonderful, the Sculptor of carved saints!
– On my way there are many birches and numerous oaks.
– I am like a sunny furrow, a sown field,
like a young and abrupt edge of the rocky Tatras.
I bless Your seedbed, in the East and in the West,
sow, farmer, your land, with generosity!
That, for nostalgia and life, the incipient youth
become a fertile wheat field, a luminous city.
May happiness adore you, the grandiose mystery,
you swelled my chest so much with the singing voice,
you allowed my poor face to sink into the blue
and you sent incessant melodies to my strings.
Because in this melody, as Christ you have appeared.
Look ahead –Slavo– the sanjuaneras lights…
The holy oak did not lose its leaves, your king is still alive,
because he is master of his people and priest, and so it was.
Worship the Lord, my soul, for the stealthy hunch,
for the spring that sings gothic sentiments,
For fiery youth, the cup of joyous joys,
by autumn stubble-like and melancholic heather.
Adore him for poetry; for joy and pain!
The joy of dominating blue and gold, the eternal abode,
because in words the joy is embodied, the great ardor,
because you reap this maturity, this reaped harvest.
Pain is the evening sadness of ineffable expressions,
When with billowing ecstasy Beauty embraces us,
God leans toward the harp – but the lightning breaks
on the rocky slope – words have no force.
Words are missing. I’m like a fallen angel
a figure on a scree, on a marble pedestal;
You breathed nostalgia into the sculpted figure and arms,
that’s why it rises, desires. Of these angels I am.
And I will still adore You, because in You is hospitality,
prize for each song, the day of the holy idea
and the joy –turned song of the hymn to motherhood,
and the silent word of fidelity. The most thorough!
Be blessed, Father, for the sadness of the angel,
for the fight of the song against the lie, inspired combat of the soul
and annihilates in us all the pettiness of the word,
break it, and form it, like a foolish man who boasts.
I walk your paths – I, the Slavic troubadour.
At solstices I play music for girls and peons,
but the song of my prayer, with modulated tones,
I cast You Nico, You on the oaken throne.
Blessed be the singing among the songs!
From my soul and from the light, blessed be the sown!
Adore, my soul, the one who more than covered
my back with the velvet and satin of potentates!
Blessed saint-carver, Slav and prophet,
–pity me– I’m an inspired tax collector.
Praise it, my soul, with song, near is the goal,
so that the anthem remains sonorous and consummated.
And let the anthem be: Poetry! poetry!
The seed yearns like the soul that suffers gaps,
May my paths be shaded by oaks and acacias,
so that the youthful harvests may please God.
Slavic Book of Longings! In the end it’s still resonant,
as of Resurrection choirs, the spring music,
with the holy and virgin song, with the prostrating poetry
and with the hymn of humanity, the Divine Magnficat.
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