A dove gazed in
through a latticed window:
there balm rained down on her face,
raining from lucent
Maximin.

The heat of the sun blazed out
to irradiate the dark:
a bud burst open, jewel-like,
in the temple of the heart
(limpid and kind his heart).

A tower of cypress is he,
and of Lebanon's cedars --
rubies and sapphires frame his turrets --
a city passing the arts
of all other artisans.

A swift stag is he
who ran to the fountain --
pure wellspring from a stone
of power -- to water
sweet-smelling spices.

O perfumers! you who dwell
in the luxuriance of royal
gardens, climbing high
when you accomplish the holy
sacrifice with rams:

Among you this architect
is shining, a wall
of the temple, he who longed
for an eagle's wings as he kissed
his foster-mother Wisdom
in Ecclesia's garden.

O Maximin,
mountain and valley,
on your towering height
the mountain goat leapt
with the elephant,
and Wisdom was in rapture.

Strong and sweet in the sacred
rites and the shimmer
of the altar,
you rise like incense
to the pillar of praise --

where you pray for your people
who strive toward the mirror
of light. Praise him!
Praise in the highest!