Quo sanctus ardor te rapit

Whither thus, in holy rapture,
Princely Maiden, art Thou bent?
Why so fleetly art Thou speeding
Up the mountain’s rough ascent?

Fill’d with the eternal Godhead!
Glowing with the Spirit’s flame!
Love it is that bears Thee onward,
And supports thy tender frame.

Lo! thine aged cousin claims Thee,
Claims thy sympathy and care;
God her shame from her hath taken;
He hath heard her fervent prayer.

Blessed Mothers! joyful meeting!
Thou in her, the hand of God,
She in Thee, with lips inspir’d,
Owns the Mother of her Lord.

As the sun his face concealing,
In a cloud withdraws from sight.
So in Mary then lay hidden
He who is the world’s true light.

Honour, glory, virtue, merit,
Be to Thee, O Virgin’s Son!
With the Father and the Spirit,
While eternal ages run.