High on the mountain summit stands the shrine
Surrounded by the foothills of the chain
Of verdant alpine pastures, but the mine
Of salt is deep below in rough terrain

The Duerrnberg salt of sparkling element
Has to be mined in shafts deep in the pit,
Its miners' job to well supply the land,
Of Salzburg, (salt burgh) and to pleasure it.

Salt! - precious salt! that turns vapidity
And staleness into spicy tang and zest,
And gives the plainest meal due pungency
That satisfies fastidious palates’ quest

Thanks to the miners Salzburg relishes
Salt crystalline and sparkling, fine and pure,
That does enhance with flavor plainest dishes,
While brine is used to oft provide a cure



Saint Rupert is the miners' patron saint,
Holds salt barrel and shepherd’s staff in hand,
As miners’ strong protector he does stand
In every church throughout the Salzburg Land.

But I digress, - I’ll speak now of the shrine
Built from the marble hewn from reddish veins,
The artful lake that turns the salt to brine
And quartz and marble quarries in the plains.

The ancient Celts too practiced arts saline,
And too used marble for their worship’s place,
But Christians later built from it a shrine
In honor of the Virgin full of Grace.

The sanctuary’s aspect is severe
Won by hard labor and great sacrifice,
They built and worked on it for many a year
A shrine erected at the highest price.

Above up high, the glory of the shrine,
And nature’s gifts of beauty all around,
Below the pit, the darkness of the mine,
And toil and labor grim deep underground.

They quarry marble and then polish it,
Till it is smooth to touch and gleams and shines,
As is for cenotaph memorials fit,
Or to adorn basilicas and shrines.

It saves much means and time to build on-site,
close by the mountains where deposits are,
And thus avoid the heavy cost of freight,
Of shipping stone and marble from afar.

But while they built the shrine, a criminal
Sat in a District dungeon cell alone,
Expecting soon to hear the hangman’s call,
To expiate his crimes and to atone.

The fellow whittled well his jailors said,
He’d carved for them some useful implements,
Cups and long-handled ladles too he made,
He was adroit and clever with his hands.

He carved fine bowls and objects of this sort,
And as condemned a man they let him be,
Released him from the shackles, for so short
His time, - the gallows loomed, - his destiny.

Meanwhile he was permitted implements,
And tools to work with, for he whittled well,
He busied now his blood stained felons hands
To carve and chisel in his dungeon cell.

The guards let him alone to work in peace,-
Respect for the condemned is Salzburg’s law,
And they permitted carving tools wherewith
To work and even gave him plane and saw.

He labored hard, he labored feverishly,
The wardens were aware of it and knew,
They set him for his work from hand cuffs free.
But what he made, - they had not got a clue.

The felon criminal worked night and day,
But no one paid attention what he made,
They only knew he had for crimes to pay
The final prize, and hanging was his fate.

The captive's industry intensified,-
Wood shavings flew within his cell‘s confine,
He worked by candle or through cracks of light,
And spoke of untapped salt within a mine.

One night a guard did fling the cover off,-
Inquisitive enforcer of the Law,-
Then gasped and thought he saw a hoax or bluff,
Or it was sheer illusion what he saw.




But no - no bluff,- She sat in splendor high,
Upon a throne, in hand an apple small,
The Second Eve, - her infant on the thigh,
The hand work of the felon criminal.

The town folk heard, and then arose a stir,-
They cried: “Hear All! Hear All”- Hear! let the fellow free,
His wondrous gifted hands created Her,
Our Blessed Mother of benignity!”

The man was pardoned after that indeed,
And changed a man, repented of his past,
So all the records and the archives read,
He found redemption and his weal at last.

And miracles and healings soon took place,
The people flocked now to the shrine to pray
Unto their Blessed Mother full of Grace,
And plans for feasts went quickly underway.

The bishop came in haste to dedicate,-
In greatest haste, - for people could not wait,
For his arrival and to consecrate
The holy image that a felon made.

This image Duerrnberg‘s joy and blessing is,
Looked to with reverence and thankful pride,
They call it “MATER ADMIRABILIS”-
And Mediatrix of Eternal Light.

This Blessed Mother as the centerpiece,
Surrounded by small cherubs’ bright galore,
Smiles down at pilgrims praying on their knees.
From every country and from every shore.

Elizxabeth Dandy

MATER ADMIRABILIS AND THE CRIMINAL Contributed by Elizabeth_Dandy on Monday, 2nd August 2004 @ 06:38:22 AM in AEST Topic: StoryPoetry High on the mountain summit stands the shrine Surrounded by the foothills of the chain Of verdant alpine pastures, but the mine Of salt is deep below in rough terrain The Duerrnberg salt of sparkling element Has to be mined in shafts deep in the pit, Its miners' job to well supply the land, Of Salzburg, (salt burgh) and to pleasure it. Salt! - precious salt! that turns vapidity And staleness into spicy tang and zest, And gives the plainest meal due pungency That satisfies fastidious palates’ quest Thanks to the miners Salzburg relishes Salt crystalline and sparkling, fine and pure, That does enhance with flavor plainest dishes, While brine is used to oft provide a cure Saint Rupert is the miners' patron saint, Holds salt barrel and shepherd’s staff in hand, As miners’ strong protector he does stand In every church throughout the Salzburg Land. But I digress, - I’ll speak now of the shrine Built from the marble hewn from reddish veins, The artful lake that turns the salt to brine And quartz and marble quarries in the plains. The ancient Celts too practiced arts saline, And too used marble for their worship’s place, But Christians later built from it a shrine In honor of the Virgin full of Grace. The sanctuary’s aspect is severe Won by hard labor and great sacrifice, They built and worked on it for many a year A shrine erected at the highest price. Above up high, the glory of the shrine, And nature’s gifts of beauty all around, Below the pit, the darkness of the mine, And toil and labor grim deep underground. They quarry marble and then polish it, Till it is smooth to touch and gleams and shines, As is for cenotaph memorials fit, Or to adorn basilicas and shrines. It saves much means and time to build on-site, close by the mountains where deposits are, And thus avoid the heavy cost of freight, Of shipping stone and marble from afar. But while they built the shrine, a criminal Sat in a District dungeon cell alone, Expecting soon to hear the hangman’s call, To expiate his crimes and to atone. The fellow whittled well his jailors said, He’d carved for them some useful implements, Cups and long-handled ladles too he made, He was adroit and clever with his hands. He carved fine bowls and objects of this sort, And as condemned a man they let him be, Released him from the shackles, for so short His time, - the gallows loomed, - his destiny. Meanwhile he was permitted implements, And tools to work with, for he whittled well, He busied now his blood stained felons hands To carve and chisel in his dungeon cell. The guards let him alone to work in peace,- Respect for the condemned is Salzburg’s law, And they permitted carving tools wherewith To work and even gave him plane and saw. He labored hard, he labored feverishly, The wardens were aware of it and knew, They set him for his work from hand cuffs free. But what he made, - they had not got a clue. The felon criminal worked night and day, But no one paid attention what he made, They only knew he had for crimes to pay The final prize, and hanging was his fate. The captive's industry intensified,- Wood shavings flew within his cell‘s confine, He worked by candle or through cracks of light, And spoke of untapped salt within a mine. One night a guard did fling the cover off,- Inquisitive enforcer of the Law,- Then gasped and thought he saw a hoax or bluff, Or it was sheer illusion what he saw. But no - no bluff,- She sat in splendor high, Upon a throne, in hand an apple small, The Second Eve, - her infant on the thigh, The hand work of the felon criminal. The town folk heard, and then arose a stir,- They cried: “Hear All! Hear All”- Hear! let the fellow free, His wondrous gifted hands created Her, Our Blessed Mother of benignity!” The man was pardoned after that indeed, And changed a man, repented of his past, So all the records and the archives read, He found redemption and his weal at last. And miracles and healings soon took place, The people flocked now to the shrine to pray Unto their Blessed Mother full of Grace, And plans for feasts went quickly underway. The bishop came in haste to dedicate,- In greatest haste, - for people could not wait, For his arrival and to consecrate The holy image that a felon made. This image Duerrnberg‘s joy and blessing is, Looked to with reverence and thankful pride, They call it “MATER ADMIRABILIS”- And Mediatrix of Eternal Light. This Blessed Mother as the centerpiece, Surrounded by small cherubs’ bright galore, Smiles down at pilgrims praying on their knees. From every country and from every shore. Elizxabeth Dandy Copyright © Elizabeth_Dandy ... [ 2004-08-02 06:38:22] (Date/Time posted on site) Advertisments: Previous Posted Poem         | |         Next Posted Poem