Do Thou cleansing waters send,
And let Thy moisture on our drought distill; What is wounded do Thou mend,
Wills grown rigid do Thou bend,
Let cold and wayward hearts obey Thy will.
On Thy faithful ones bestow
Thy sevenfold gifts, for lo, they trust in Thee; Praise of virtue do Thou show,
Safe departure may we know,
And grant to us true joy eternally.
Marbod, bishop of Rennes, was the son of a fur dealer at Angers. He was born in 1035, became bishop in 1095, and died 1125, at St. Aubin. He left many versified legends of saints, and among his poems is one, "De Gemmis," a long account of the mystical meanings attached by the medieval mind to precious stones. This was a favorite poem in the Middle Ages. In all Latin hymnody, there is no finer instance of rhyme than that which is given in the selection which follows. It has seemed best, in translating, also to keep the metrical form.
Deus-homo, Rex coelorum,
Miserere miserorum;
Ad peccandum proni sumus,
Et ad humum redit humus;
Tu ruinam nostram fulci
Pietate tua dulci.
Quid est homo, proles Adae?
Germen necis dignum clade.
Quid est homo nisi vermis,
Res infirma, res inermis.
Ne digneris huic irasci,
Qui non potest mundus nasci:
Noli, Deus, hunc damnare,
Qui non potest non peccare;
Iudicare non est aequum
Creaturam, non est tecum:
Non est miser homo tanti,
Ut respondeat Tonanti.
Sicut umbra, sicut fumus,
Sicut foenum facti sumus:
Miserere, Rex coelorum,
Miserere miserorum.
Man divine, thou King of heaven,
Pity to the weak be given;
Prone are we to constant sinning,
Earth returns to earth's beginning;
Be our stay in time of danger,
Thy sweet grace to us no stranger.
What is man, from Adam springing?
Worthy death, and death's seed bringing.
What is man? an earthworm senseless,
Thing of weakness, thing defenseless.
Be not angry with him ever
Who can be born stainless never:
Spare, O God, Thy wrath appalling,
Since he cannot keep from falling;
'Tis not just that Thou upbraid him,
'Tis not worthy Thee who made him:
Wretched man, of all things weakest,
May not answer when Thou speakest.
We like smoke are made, or shadow,
Like the grass upon the meadow;
Pity, O Thou King of heaven,
Pity to the weak be given.
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