IX. Ad clerum Parisiacum
To the Clergy of Paris
Honored gathering, ornament of your order, you noble fathers whom I venerate with heart and faith and devotion — for a long time now you have been calling me back to wake my lyre, grown rusty from disuse, and I have been reluctant to strike its strings with stiff fingers, since my hand no longer runs through the old art easily. My tongue sounds out rough and raspy words. A file can barely restore an edge to iron long corroded, and a color doesn't gleam in metal long tarnished with smoke. But since your sweetness presses like a hammer, and your care grinds away like an anvil, and you light a fire in my heart's furnace — I yield to you. Your love has driven me, like iron reheated in a forge, back to the craft.
The high-ranking clergy of Paris are magnificent in their sacred dignity — the soul, glory, service, and honor of the Church, weaving divine poetry in the manner of David [the Psalmist], turning the sweet labor of the psalms over and over in tireless courses. There are the priests, there shines the Levitical order [the deacons and subdeacons]; some are covered by grey hair, others by a fine stole; on some, pallor rests, on others a flush plays over their faces — lilies and roses mingled, gleaming white and red. Some are white already with age, others white still with their vestments, so that the painted crown might please the highest God.
In the midst of them stands Bishop Germanus [Germanus of Paris, bishop 555-576, later canonized] as their presiding honor, governing the young on one side, sustaining the elders on the other. The deacons go before, the senior order follows their lead: he sets some in motion by his walk, draws others along by his guidance. He himself processes slowly, like another Aaron [the high priest of Israel], shining not by his vestments but by his piety — not adorned with gems, scarlet, the priestly cap, gold, purple, and fine linen, but radiant with nurturing faith. He is a far better priest than the ancient law could produce, because here the truth is worshipped where once only shadow was.
Thinking great things of the future, setting aside all present distraction — dying to the flesh before the flesh falls to its natural end — he anxiously gathers his sheep into the fold, lest the wolf's rage devour any of them. Called continually by exhortation to the salt pastures, the flock recognizes its shepherd's voice and follows in love. Like soldiers quick to arms when the signal rings in their ears, they leap from sleep and rush to the sacred mysteries before all others, each seeking the church from his own quarter. The house floods the whole people with burning devotion, and they compete with each other to see who can get there first.
Joining sleepless nights to the first light of dawn, the venerable throng builds up angelic choirs: pressing forward steadily in the holy work, it raises its voice against heaven, wielding its weapons in song. Weaving together the threads of the psalter in lyric measure, the chant, ordered in verses, draws the soul by love. Here a boy tunes a small pipe, there an old man pours out a great trumpet from his mouth; cymbals mix with high-pitched reeds and the flute sounds sweetly in varying tones; the hoarse drumming of the old is soothed by the young man's flute, and the melodious human voices restore the lyre. One voice draws the melody gently, another carries it with swift energy — so the work is varied by age and gender.
Christ's threshing floor burns, separating the wheat — for the granaries of God must be built. Remembering the Creator's voice that blessed are those whom the Lord finds watching when he returns — in the merits, spirit, virtue, and faith of these people, what great lights are hidden beneath their bodily covering!
With the bishop's guidance, clergy, laity, and even infants sing psalms, and from their brief labor they will be filled with the harvest. Under Germanus as their general, this is a blessed army. Moses, stretch out your hands [as he did in the battle against Amalek, Ex. 17:11-12] and you will strengthen your camp.
IX
Ad clerum Parisiacum
Coetus honorifici decus et gradus ordinis ampli,
quos colo corde fide religione patres,
iam dudum obliti desueto carmine plectri
cogitis antiquam me renovare lyram.
en stupidis digitis stimulatis tangere cordas,
cum mihi non solito currat in arte manus.
scabrida nunc resonat mea lingua rubigine verba
exit et incompto raucus ab ore fragor.
vix dabit in veteri ferrugine cotis acumen
aut fumo infecto splendet in aere color.
sed quia dulcedo pulsans quasi malleus instat,
et velut incudo cura relisa terit
pectoris atque mei succenditis igne caminum,
unde ministratur cordis in arce vapor:
obsequor hinc, quia me veluti fornace recocto
artis ad officium vester adegit amor. –
Celsa Parisiaci clerus reverentia pollens.
ecclesiae genium gloria munus honor,
carmine Davitico divina poemata pangens
cursibus assiduis dulce revolvit opus.
inde sacerdotes, Leviticus hinc micat ordo,
illos canities, hos stola pulchra tegit ;
illis pallor inest, rubor his in vultibus errat,
et candunt rutilis lilia mixta rosis.
illi iam senio, sed et hi bene vestibus albent,
ut placeat summo picta corona deo.
in medios Germanus adest antistes honore,
qui regit hinc iuvenes, subrigit inde senes.
Levitae praeeunt, sequitur gravis ordo ducatum:
hos gradiendo movet, hos moderando trahit.
ipse tamen sensim incedit, velut alter Aaron,
non de veste nitens, sed pietate placens;
non lapides coccus cidar aurum purpura byssus
exornant humeros, sed micat alma fides.
iste satis melior veteri quam lege sacerdos,
hic quia vera colit quo prius umbra fuit.
magna futura putans, praesentia cuncta refellens,
antea carne carens quam caro fine ruens,
sollicitus, quemquam ne devoret ira luporum,
colligit ad caulas pastor opimus oves.
assiduis monitis ad pascua salsa vocatus
grex vocem agnoscens currit amore sequax;
miles ad arma celer, signum mox tinnit in aures,
erigit excusso membra sopore toro,
advolat ante alios, mysteria sacra requirens,
undique quisque suo templa petendo loco;
flagranti studio populum domus inrigat omnem
certatimque monent, quis prior ire valet.
pervigiles noctes ad prima crepuscula iungens
construit angelicos turba verenda choros:
gressibus exertis in opus venerabile constans
vim factura polo cantibus arma movet;
stamina psalterii lyrico modulamine texens
versibus orditum carmen amore trahit.
hinc puer exiguis attemperat organa cannis,
inde senis largam ructat ab ore tubam;
cymbalicae voces calamis miscentur acutis
disparibusque tropis fistula dulce sonat;
tympana rauca senum puerilis tibia mulcet
atque hominum reparant verba canora lyram.
leniter iste trahit modulus, rapit alacer ille :
sexus et aetatis sic variatur opus.
triticeas fruges fervens terit area Christi,
horrea quando quidem construitura dei,
voce creatoris reminiscens esse beatos
quos dominus vigiles, dum redit ipse, videt.
in quorum meritis, animo, virtute fideque
tegmine corporeo lumina quanta latent!
pontificis monitis clerus, plebs psallit et infans,
unde labore brevi fruge replendus erit.
sub duce Germano felix exercitus hic est,
Moyses, tende manus et tua castra iuvas.
◆
IX. Ad clerum Parisiacum To the Clergy of Paris
Honored gathering, ornament of your order, you noble fathers whom I venerate with heart and faith and devotion — for a long time now you have been calling me back to wake my lyre, grown rusty from disuse, and I have been reluctant to strike its strings with stiff fingers, since my hand no longer runs through the old art easily. My tongue sounds out rough and raspy words. A file can barely restore an edge to iron long corroded, and a color doesn't gleam in metal long tarnished with smoke. But since your sweetness presses like a hammer, and your care grinds away like an anvil, and you light a fire in my heart's furnace — I yield to you. Your love has driven me, like iron reheated in a forge, back to the craft.
The high-ranking clergy of Paris are magnificent in their sacred dignity — the soul, glory, service, and honor of the Church, weaving divine poetry in the manner of David [the Psalmist], turning the sweet labor of the psalms over and over in tireless courses. There are the priests, there shines the Levitical order [the deacons and subdeacons]; some are covered by grey hair, others by a fine stole; on some, pallor rests, on others a flush plays over their faces — lilies and roses mingled, gleaming white and red. Some are white already with age, others white still with their vestments, so that the painted crown might please the highest God.
In the midst of them stands Bishop Germanus [Germanus of Paris, bishop 555-576, later canonized] as their presiding honor, governing the young on one side, sustaining the elders on the other. The deacons go before, the senior order follows their lead: he sets some in motion by his walk, draws others along by his guidance. He himself processes slowly, like another Aaron [the high priest of Israel], shining not by his vestments but by his piety — not adorned with gems, scarlet, the priestly cap, gold, purple, and fine linen, but radiant with nurturing faith. He is a far better priest than the ancient law could produce, because here the truth is worshipped where once only shadow was.
Thinking great things of the future, setting aside all present distraction — dying to the flesh before the flesh falls to its natural end — he anxiously gathers his sheep into the fold, lest the wolf's rage devour any of them. Called continually by exhortation to the salt pastures, the flock recognizes its shepherd's voice and follows in love. Like soldiers quick to arms when the signal rings in their ears, they leap from sleep and rush to the sacred mysteries before all others, each seeking the church from his own quarter. The house floods the whole people with burning devotion, and they compete with each other to see who can get there first.
Joining sleepless nights to the first light of dawn, the venerable throng builds up angelic choirs: pressing forward steadily in the holy work, it raises its voice against heaven, wielding its weapons in song. Weaving together the threads of the psalter in lyric measure, the chant, ordered in verses, draws the soul by love. Here a boy tunes a small pipe, there an old man pours out a great trumpet from his mouth; cymbals mix with high-pitched reeds and the flute sounds sweetly in varying tones; the hoarse drumming of the old is soothed by the young man's flute, and the melodious human voices restore the lyre. One voice draws the melody gently, another carries it with swift energy — so the work is varied by age and gender.
Christ's threshing floor burns, separating the wheat — for the granaries of God must be built. Remembering the Creator's voice that blessed are those whom the Lord finds watching when he returns — in the merits, spirit, virtue, and faith of these people, what great lights are hidden beneath their bodily covering!
With the bishop's guidance, clergy, laity, and even infants sing psalms, and from their brief labor they will be filled with the harvest. Under Germanus as their general, this is a blessed army. Moses, stretch out your hands [as he did in the battle against Amalek, Ex. 17:11-12] and you will strengthen your camp.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.