Joanne_ca:
I downloaded a program to translate what you wrote in Latin, I was curious. As you can see I don’t know much Latin, just what is said during mass and that’s debatable. I’m not sure if I got it right and if not could you clarify? Is this about the last judgement?
Thanks
Yup, it is. The text that was posted is from the Dies Irae, the Sequence of the Requiem Mass (both old and new, incidentally).
Here’s a rather poetic translation, that I happen to like…
That Day of Wrath, that dreadful day,
When heaven and earth shall pass away,
Both David and the Sibyl say.
What terror then shall us befall,
When lo, the JudgeÕs steps appall,
About to sift the deeds of all.
The mighty trumpetÕs marvellous tone
Shall pierce through each sepulchral stone
And summon all before the throne.
Now Death and Nature in amaze
Behold the Lord His creatures raise,
To meet the JudgeÕs awful gaze.
The books are opened, that the dead
May have their doom from waht is read,
The record of our conscience dread.
The Lord of judgment sits Him down,
And every secret thing makes known;
No crime escapes His vengeful frown.
Ah, how shall I that day endure?
What partronÕs friendly voice secure,
When scarce the just themselves are sure?
O King of dreadful majesty,
Who grantest grace and mercy free,
Grant mercy now and grace to me.
Good Lord, Õtwas for my sinful sake,
That Thou our suffering nature didst take;
Then do not now my soul forsake.
In weariness Thy sheep was sought;
Upon the Cross His life was bought;
Alas, if all in vain were wrought.
O just avenging Judge, I pray,
For pity take my sins away,
Before the great accounting-day.
I groan beneath the guilt, which Thou
Canst read upon my blushing brow;
But space, O God, Thy suppliant now.
Thou who didst MaryÕs sins unbind,
And mercy for the robber find,
Dost filled with hope my anxious mind.
My feeble prayers can make no claim,
Yet, gracious Lord, for Thy great Name,
Redeem me from the quenchless flame.
At Thy right hand, give me a place
Among Thy sheep, a child of grace,
Far from the goatsÕ accursed race.
Yea, when Thy justly kindled ire
Shall sinners hurl to endless fire,
Oh, call me to Thy chosen choir.
In suppliant prayer I prostrate bend,
My contrite heart like ashes rend,
Regard, O Lord, my latter end.
Oh, on that day, that tearful day,
When man to judgment wakes from clay,
Be thou the trembling sinnerÕs stay,
And spare him, God, we humbly pray.
Yea, grant to all, O Saviour Blest,
Who die in Thee, the SaintsÕ sweet rest.
