I was enamoured of dear Christ; His utter beauty struck me dumb,
His face alone could compensate for scenes that almost made me long
For blindness. Yea, to Him I turned from all this heartache, nightly kissed
His hand with passion. I at least would not betray the children's Friend.
Haply His strength has always lain in contrast. I found strength to press
Toward the mark. Not so the host: we could not kick it to its feet.
Then heaven inspired us to devise a pious fraud—The Holy Lance.
We hid it in Saint Peter's crypt, and dug it up. The people wept
With rapture at this talisman, and sang the Psalm "Let God arise."
Also our chiefs—they knew my zeal—bade me complete the heartening sign.