IX. Ad Felicem episcopum de pascha
Easter Letter to Felix, Bishop of Nantes
The seasons glow, marked by flowering calm, and the gate of heaven opens in greater light. The sun's sphere carries the fire-breathing sun higher, wandering as it rises and sets in the ocean waters, sweeping the liquid elements with armed rays, still stretching the day across the world with its brief night. The bright skies show their pure face, and the clear stars proclaim their joy.
The gracious earth pours out its little gifts in varied offspring now that the year has restored its spring riches well: soft violet-beds paint the field purple; meadows are green with grass, and grass shimmers with its hair. Star-like blossoms of flowers gradually appear and the colored grasses smile at their own eyes. The nursing grain springs up from the sown seed in the fields, promising the farmer that hunger can be overcome. The pruned vine weeps its joys — where it will give wine, the vine now gives water. Rising from the bark of its mother-stock in tender softness, the swelling bud prepares its womb for birth. With winter stripping the crown of leaves, the wood already restores green, leafy shelter — myrtle, willow, fir, hazel, osier, elm, and maple, each lovely tree clapping with its own leaves. The bee leaving the hive to build her combs buzzes among the flowers and snatches honey with her knee. The birds are called back to song — silenced, sluggish in winter's cold, their music locked away. The nightingale here tunes her pipes with her own reeds, and the air grows sweeter as the melody echoes back.
Look: the grace of the reborn world testifies that all gifts have returned with their Lord. For with Christ triumphant after the sad realm of the underworld, the grove everywhere with its branches and the meadow with its flowers lend their favor. The laws of hell crushed and Christ rising above the stars — light, sky, fields, and sea rightly praise God. He who was crucified — behold, God reigns through all things, and all creation gives prayer to its Creator.
Hail, festive day, venerable through all ages, on which God conquered hell and holds the stars — nobility of the year, adornment of the months, the armor of days, splendor of hours, cherishing minutes and moments. On one side the leafy forest claps for you, on one side the field with its grain, on one side the vine gives thanks with its silent branch. If the groves now resound with the birds' murmur, I, least among them, sing in love.
Christ, salvation of the world, good creator and redeemer, only offspring from the Father's godhead, flowing from the Father's heart in ways beyond telling, the Word subsisting and able to penetrate all things, equal, of one accord, and companion — coeternal with the Father, by whose princely act the world took its beginning: you suspend the heavens, gather the continents, pour out the seas, and by your governance all that lives in its place has life. Seeing the human race sunk in the deep, to rescue humanity you also became human; you willed not only to be born in a body but also that the flesh born should suffer and die — you, the author of life and the world, accept the last rites of death, entering the path of mortality to give the help of salvation.
The sad chains of the law of hell fell back and the chaos shuddered to be overwhelmed by the face of light; the darkness perishes, put to flight by Christ's splendor, and the dense cloaks of foul night fall away.
But, gracious power, fulfill your promised faith, I beg — the third light has returned; rise, my entombed Lord. It is not right that your limbs should be covered by a humble grave, that common stones should weigh down the price of the world. It is unworthy that one in whose fist all things are closed should be kept enclosed by a rock. Take away the linen cloths, I beg — leave the shrouds to the tomb: you are enough for us, and without you there is nothing.
Loose the chained shadows of the dungeon of hell, and call back everything that has fallen to the depths. Return your face, so that ages may see the light; give back the day that fled from us at your death.
But you have fully entered the world at last, holy victor: the underworld lies crushed and no longer holds its rights. Hell, opening its hollow throat insatiably — which always snatched prey — becomes your prey, O God. You snatch a countless people from the prison of death, and they follow their liberator freely wherever their author goes. The savage beast trembles and disgorges the people it had swallowed, and the lamb draws the sheep from the wolf's throat.
Then returning to the tomb, your flesh resumed after the underworld, warrior that you are, you carry vast trophies to heaven. What agonizing chaos held, it has now restored in you, and those whom death was claiming — new life holds them now.
Sacred king, look: a great part of your triumph shines when holy baptism [the Easter Vigil — when catechumens were baptized] blesses pure souls. A gleaming army marches out from the shining waters and washes away its old fault in the new river; gleaming white vestments mark the radiant souls, and the shepherd rejoices in his snow-white flock.
Added to this reward as a sharer is Bishop Felix, who wishes to give his Lord the doubled talents [Matthew 25:14-30 — the parable of the talents]. Drawing to better things those wandering in pagan error, he fortifies God's sheepfold so the wild beast cannot seize them. Those whom sinful Eve had infected, he now gives back fed at the church's breast, with milk and in her embrace. By cultivating wild hearts with gentle words — through the gift of Felix, a crop is born from the thorn. A rough people, living like animals on rock: with you as their physician, holy one, the wild beast becomes a lamb.
With a hundredfold return, staying with you for eternity, you fill the barns of the abundant harvest with grain. May this people be nourished blamelessly in your arms, and may you carry a pure pledge to the stars for God. One crown will be given you from above for yourself; another, gathered for you, will bloom from your people.
IX
Ad Felicem episcopum de pascha
Tempora florigero rutilant distincta sereno
et maiore poli lumine porta patet,
altius ignivomum solem caeli orbita ducit,
qui vagus Oceanas exit et intrat aquas;
armatis radiis elementa liquentia lustrans
adhuc nocte brevi tendit in orbe diem.
splendida sincerum producunt aethera vultum
laetitiamque suam sidera clara probant.
terra favens vario fundit munuscula fetu,
cum bene vernales reddidit annus opes:
mollia purpureum pingunt violaria campum,
prata virent herbis et micat herba comis.
paulatim subeunt stellantia lumina florum
arridentque oculis gramina tincta suis.
semine deposito lactans seges exilit arvis,
spondens agricolae vincere posse famem.
caudice desecto lacrimat sua gaudia palmes:
unde merum tribuat, dat modo vitis aquam.
cortice de matris tenera lanugine surgens
praeparat ad partum turgida gemma sinum.
tempore sub hiemis foliorum crine revulso
iam reparat viridans frondea tecta nemus:
myrta salix abies corylus siler ulmus acernus
plaudit quaeque suis arbor amoena comis.
construitura favos apes hinc alvearia linquens
floribus instrepitans poplite mella rapit.
ad cantus revocatur aves, quae carmine clauso
pigrior hiberno frigore muta fuit.
hinc filomela suis adtemperat organa cannis
fitque repercusso dulcior aura melo.
ecce renascentis testatur gratia mundi
omnia cum domino dona redisse suo.
namque triumphanti post tristia Tartara Christo
undique fronde nemus, gramina flore favent.
legibus inferni oppressis super astra meantem
laudant rite deum lux polus arva fretum;
qui crucifixus erat. deus ecce per omnia regnat,
dantque creatori cuncta creata precem.
salve, festa dies, toto venerabilis aevo,
qua deus infernum vicit et astra tenet,
nobilitas anni, mensum decus, arma dierum,
horarum splendor, scripula, puncta fovens.
hinc tibi silva comis plaudit, hinc campus aristis,
hinc grates tacito palmite vitis agit.
si tibi nunc avium resonant virgulta susurro,
has inter minimus passer amore cano.
Christe, salus rerum, bone conditor atque redemptor,
unica progenies ex deitate patris,
inrecitabiliter manans de corde parentis,
verbum subsistens et penetrare potens,
aequalis concors socius, cum patre coaevus,
quo sumpsit mundus principe principium:
aethera suspendis, sola congeris, aequora fundis,
quaeque locis habitant quo moderante vigent,
qui genus humanum cernens mersisse profundo,
ut hominem eriperes es quoque factus homo;
nec voluisti etenim tantum te corpore nasci,
sed caro quae nasci, pertulit atque mori:
funeris exequias pateris vitae auctor et orbis,
intras mortis iter dando salutis opem.
tristia cesserunt infernae vincula legis
expavitque chaos luminis ore premi;
depereunt tenebrae Christi fulgore fugatae
et tetrae noctis pallia crassa cadunt.
pollicitam sed redde fidem, precor, alma potestas:
tertia lux rediit, surge, sepulte meus.
non decet, ut humili tumulo tua membra tegantur,
neu pretium mundi vilia saxa premant.
indignum est, cuius clauduntur cuncta pugillo,
ut tegat inclusum rupe vetante lapis.
lintea tolle, precor, sudaria linque sepulchro :
tu satis es nobis et sine te nihil est.
solve catenatas inferni carceris umbras
et revoca sursum quidquid ad ima ruit.
redde tuam faciem, videant ut saecula lumen,
redde diem qui nos te moriente fugit.
sed plane inplesti remeans, pie victor, ad orbem:
Tartara pressa iacent nec sua iura tenent;
inferus insaturabiliter cava guttura pandens,
qui rapuit semper, fit tua praeda, deus:
eripis innumerum populum de carcere mortis
et sequitur liber quo suus auctor adit;
evomit absorptam trepide fera belua plebem
et de fauce lupi subtrahit agnus oves.
hinc tumulum repetens, post Tartara carne resumpta,
belliger ad caelos ampla tropaea refers:
quos habuit poenale chaos, iam reddidit in te,
et quos mors peteret, hos nova vita tenet.
rex sacer, ecce tui radiat pars magna triumphi,
cum puras animas sancta lavacra beant:
candidus egreditur nitidis exercitus undis
atque vetus vitium purgat in amne novo;
fulgentes animas vestis quoque candida signat
et grege de niveo gaudia pastor habet,
additur hac Felix consors mercede sacerdos,
qui dare vult domino dupla talenta suo.
ad meliora trahens gentili errore vagantes,
bestia ne raperet, munit ovile dei.
quos prius Evva nocens infecerat, hos modo reddit
ecclesiae pastos ubere , lacte, sinu.
mitibus alloquiis agrestia corda colendo:
munere Felicis de vepre nata seges.
aspera gens, saxo vivens quasi more ferino:
te medicante. sacer, belua reddit ovem.
centeno reditu tecum mansura per aevum
messis abundantis horrea fruge reples.
inmaculata tuis plebs haec vegetetur in ulnis,
atque deo purum pignus ad astra feras.
una corona tibi de te tribuatur ab alto.
altera de populo vernet adepta tuo.
◆
IX. Ad Felicem episcopum de pascha Easter Letter to Felix, Bishop of Nantes
The seasons glow, marked by flowering calm, and the gate of heaven opens in greater light. The sun's sphere carries the fire-breathing sun higher, wandering as it rises and sets in the ocean waters, sweeping the liquid elements with armed rays, still stretching the day across the world with its brief night. The bright skies show their pure face, and the clear stars proclaim their joy.
The gracious earth pours out its little gifts in varied offspring now that the year has restored its spring riches well: soft violet-beds paint the field purple; meadows are green with grass, and grass shimmers with its hair. Star-like blossoms of flowers gradually appear and the colored grasses smile at their own eyes. The nursing grain springs up from the sown seed in the fields, promising the farmer that hunger can be overcome. The pruned vine weeps its joys — where it will give wine, the vine now gives water. Rising from the bark of its mother-stock in tender softness, the swelling bud prepares its womb for birth. With winter stripping the crown of leaves, the wood already restores green, leafy shelter — myrtle, willow, fir, hazel, osier, elm, and maple, each lovely tree clapping with its own leaves. The bee leaving the hive to build her combs buzzes among the flowers and snatches honey with her knee. The birds are called back to song — silenced, sluggish in winter's cold, their music locked away. The nightingale here tunes her pipes with her own reeds, and the air grows sweeter as the melody echoes back.
Look: the grace of the reborn world testifies that all gifts have returned with their Lord. For with Christ triumphant after the sad realm of the underworld, the grove everywhere with its branches and the meadow with its flowers lend their favor. The laws of hell crushed and Christ rising above the stars — light, sky, fields, and sea rightly praise God. He who was crucified — behold, God reigns through all things, and all creation gives prayer to its Creator.
Hail, festive day, venerable through all ages, on which God conquered hell and holds the stars — nobility of the year, adornment of the months, the armor of days, splendor of hours, cherishing minutes and moments. On one side the leafy forest claps for you, on one side the field with its grain, on one side the vine gives thanks with its silent branch. If the groves now resound with the birds' murmur, I, least among them, sing in love.
Christ, salvation of the world, good creator and redeemer, only offspring from the Father's godhead, flowing from the Father's heart in ways beyond telling, the Word subsisting and able to penetrate all things, equal, of one accord, and companion — coeternal with the Father, by whose princely act the world took its beginning: you suspend the heavens, gather the continents, pour out the seas, and by your governance all that lives in its place has life. Seeing the human race sunk in the deep, to rescue humanity you also became human; you willed not only to be born in a body but also that the flesh born should suffer and die — you, the author of life and the world, accept the last rites of death, entering the path of mortality to give the help of salvation.
The sad chains of the law of hell fell back and the chaos shuddered to be overwhelmed by the face of light; the darkness perishes, put to flight by Christ's splendor, and the dense cloaks of foul night fall away.
But, gracious power, fulfill your promised faith, I beg — the third light has returned; rise, my entombed Lord. It is not right that your limbs should be covered by a humble grave, that common stones should weigh down the price of the world. It is unworthy that one in whose fist all things are closed should be kept enclosed by a rock. Take away the linen cloths, I beg — leave the shrouds to the tomb: you are enough for us, and without you there is nothing.
Loose the chained shadows of the dungeon of hell, and call back everything that has fallen to the depths. Return your face, so that ages may see the light; give back the day that fled from us at your death.
But you have fully entered the world at last, holy victor: the underworld lies crushed and no longer holds its rights. Hell, opening its hollow throat insatiably — which always snatched prey — becomes your prey, O God. You snatch a countless people from the prison of death, and they follow their liberator freely wherever their author goes. The savage beast trembles and disgorges the people it had swallowed, and the lamb draws the sheep from the wolf's throat.
Then returning to the tomb, your flesh resumed after the underworld, warrior that you are, you carry vast trophies to heaven. What agonizing chaos held, it has now restored in you, and those whom death was claiming — new life holds them now.
Sacred king, look: a great part of your triumph shines when holy baptism [the Easter Vigil — when catechumens were baptized] blesses pure souls. A gleaming army marches out from the shining waters and washes away its old fault in the new river; gleaming white vestments mark the radiant souls, and the shepherd rejoices in his snow-white flock.
Added to this reward as a sharer is Bishop Felix, who wishes to give his Lord the doubled talents [Matthew 25:14-30 — the parable of the talents]. Drawing to better things those wandering in pagan error, he fortifies God's sheepfold so the wild beast cannot seize them. Those whom sinful Eve had infected, he now gives back fed at the church's breast, with milk and in her embrace. By cultivating wild hearts with gentle words — through the gift of Felix, a crop is born from the thorn. A rough people, living like animals on rock: with you as their physician, holy one, the wild beast becomes a lamb.
With a hundredfold return, staying with you for eternity, you fill the barns of the abundant harvest with grain. May this people be nourished blamelessly in your arms, and may you carry a pure pledge to the stars for God. One crown will be given you from above for yourself; another, gathered for you, will bloom from your people.
Modern English rendering for readability. See the 19th-century translation or original Latin/Greek for scholarly use.