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lyrics

Tandis que les crachats rouges de la mitraille
Sifflent tout le jour par l'infini du ciel bleu ;
Qu'écarlates ou verts, près du Roi qui les raille,
Croulent les bataillons en masse dans le feu ;

Tandis qu'une folie épouvantable, broie
Et fait de cent milliers d'hommes un tas fumant ;
—Pauvres morts ! dans l'été, dans l'herbe, dans ta joie,
Nature ! ô toi qui fis ces hommes saintement !...—

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus
Dominus Deus Sabaoth.
Pleni sunt cæli et terra gloria tua.
Hosanna in excelsis.

While the red spits of the grapeshot
Whistle all day through the infinity of the blue sky,
While, scarlet or green, near the King who mocks them,
The battalions collapse, en masse, in the fire;

While an appalling madness grinds a hundred thousand men
Into a smoking heap;
Poor Dead! In the summer, in the grass, in your joy,
Nature! O thou who made them in sanctity.

There is a God, who laughs at damask altar-cloths,
At the incense, at the large golden chalices;
Who, rocked by the hosannahs, falls asleep,

And wakes up, when some mothers, bowed in anguish,
And weeping under their old black bonnet,
Give him a coin knotted in their handkerchief!

—Il est un Dieu, qui rit aux nappes damassées
Des autels, à l'encens, aux grands calices d'or ;
Qui dans le bercement des hosannah s'endort,

Et se réveille, quand des mères, ramassées
Dans l'angoisse et pleurant sous leur vieux bonnet noir,
Lui donnent un gros sou lié dans leur mouchoir !

credits

from Missa brevis Abbaye de Th​é​l​è​me, released December 1, 2023

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New Flore Music Iowa City, Iowa

The music of Jean-Francois Charles & friends.

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