Turn as the monks do, every one;
The saplings, ardent novices,
Turning with them towards the sun,
That Monstrance held in God’s strong hands,
Burnished in amber and in red;
God, His Own priest, in blessing stands;
The earth, adoring, bows her head.
The idols of your market place,
Your high debates, where are they now?
Your lawyers’ clamour fades apace—