Prudentius

Learn what our temple is, if you would know;
It is one that no artisan has built,
A structure not of riven fir or pine,
Nor reared with blocks of quarried marble fair.
Its massive weight no columns high support
Beneath the arches of a gilded vault.
By God's Word it was formed, not by his voice,
But by the everlasting Word, the Word made flesh.
This temple is eternal, without end,
This you attacked with scourge and cross and gall.
This temple was destroyed by bitter pains.
Its form was fragile from the Mother's womb,
But when brief death the Mother's part dissolved,
The Father's might restored it in three days.
You have beheld my saving temple rise
On high, surrounded by an angel throng.
The everlasting gates uphold its roof;
Through lofty towers the glorious stairs arise,
And at the top appears a shining path.