TO THE QUEEN OF VICTORY

So soulful never looked a woman's eye,
Nor so serene the bluest summer sky;
No brow revealed such deep humility
And yet bore such an air of victory.

So sweetly never sang a morning lark
When soaring heavenward from earth's green park;
No other voice could reach in ecstasy
Magnificat's high note of victory.

No human heart felt less sin's blighting sting,
Nor more the Spirit's overshadowing;
Her soul was like a pool of purity,
Her fairy hands held fairest victory.

Such regal power had no earthly queen,
Nor carried it with such angelic mien;
Her lienage was purest royalty,
And hers was also God's best victory.

Though I am now her humblest troubadour,
I know that heaven holds this blessed lure:
Enraptured I shall sit before thy knee,
And sing thy praise, sweet Queen of Victory.

*Frederick M. Lynk, S.V.D.
Cyril Robert. Our Lady's Praise in Poetry.
Poughkeepsie, New York: Marist Press, 1944.

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