Do you know, blonde, what favor I request When I cover the altars with offerings? Not rich furnishings, not superb lands, Neither a table that flatters the appetite.
Foolish who worships not th’ eternal Word as equal to the high Father in heaven. Foolish who worships not th’ incarnate Word, as equal to the heavenly Word on High, but cuts from Father’s might His Word, or else severs the Word from human shape, our breadth.
Just as a little olive offshoot grows Beneath its orchard elders’ shady rows, No budding leaf as yet, no branching limb, Only a rod uprising, virgin-slim —