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This sacred urn hides the ashes of the Queen of Navarre, an urn hiding a great corpse under a trifle of soil.
Here lies bountiful Margaret, no woman greater in name or more outstanding in piety.
Bountiful Margaret is prostrate, but in body. She was never prostrate in mind while she lived, nor does she lie now, finished.
You divine bards, prepare verses, not tombs, in which Margaret’s bones, gently placed, may lie.
Let all poets who are mighty in verses and song sing of Margaret in their verses and song.
Alas, a queen has perished who transcended her sex, their mind and their manner — if she can have perished.
Her body possesses the earth, her mind heaven: each possesses what it loved, each rejoices in its former places.
This stone encloses the ashes and bones of the Queen of Navarre, but it does not enclose her hope and her faith.
Whatever good or holy that mortals can ever possess from the Eternal, Margaret received.
Having done the good and the holy so often, she is enjoying the good and the holy, and she is thoroughly enjoying God.
This is a tomb of whatever portion of a queen the sun bathes on earth with its light, and whatever the ocean laves.
This small urn does not enclose the Queen of Navarre: a small urn cannot enclose a queen.
Happy is she who is found to be vigilant when her bridegroom comes, the oil not failing in her lamp.
She lies until the trumpet announces the hour of Christ’s coming, and its allowed her to return.
The wall is not breached: it always vigilantly guarded itself and its people against the contrivances of robbers.
If you do not pray good words at Margaret’s tomb, you are either ignorant of Christ, or an ungrateful man.
If ever a woman deserved praise for pure religion of God and for faith, she was Margaret.
Here lies a woman, the equal of whom neither our age nor that of olden times have seen, nor will future centuries see her like.
If her body dies, there dies neither her glory, her name, or her honor, nor whatever holy Poetry possesses.
She who was wont with her brother to impart her splendor to the Muses has perished with the Muses, and, as a sister, with her royal brother.
She has been taken away by no other decree than that which removes the blessed: so who should imagine this blessed woman has perished?
Death has killed her whom neither this age nor posterity will fail no know, and she possesses the places she has often craved.
Margaret, now free of her human prison, is enjoying the space of heaven, freer than her own.
So is she perished, she who was wont to sing pious songs so often, having often delayed the fatal hands?
While on earth, she wrote holy songs for us. Now in heaven, she sings holy songs for Christ.
Say with Paul, “the Queen of Navarre sleeps.” She sleeps, but so that she may arise on that destined day.
Where has her strength of mind departed? Where that royal majesty of her body? Where the beauty of her pious face?
“My face and the rest of my body is loathsome to see, but the form of my mind is fair.”
Away with the arts of Asclepius, away with those of Machaeon. Not destined to die, she employs her own Physician.
May the Lord grant repose to her ashes, let her spirit mount to the skies whence it came.
Although her dead corpse rests in a narrow urn, yet her fame goes a-flying, unconfined by a narrow limit.
Do you imagine she has died, she at whom the globe stands amazed, and whose name fills both its poles?
When death took off Margaret lest she be immortal, it transformed her from a mortal to a tutelary goddess.
Her mind, so often anxious over the body’s contentions, hoped for peace; at length, so she might enjoy peace, she died.
“I lived (said she) enough and more, I completed my allotted time. Now it pleases me to have lost my life.”
Her fame boasts of an upright and honest public life, her public repute has assured credit.
She has been snatched away, though she could have survived many years. The best of things pass away, the worst of things endure.
As a pilgrim, she was wont to pass to and fro on earth. When her wandering became wearisome, she sought the stars.
You ask why she strove to lead a pure life? So she might have a good death.
She lived under Christ as her guide, she died with Christ for her guide. Her life and death were under Christ.
What did she not possess? What was she not before? But then she was nothing and possessed nothing. Now she possesses, and is, something.
When Margaret died, then she first began to live: she is dead to the world, but alive to God.
Oh, how often did she exclaim, “Oh the very lengthy time of my life! God, may I not live, freed by death?”
With virtue for her guide and hard labor for her companion, she, a princess, sits on heaven’s principle seat.
Pray what did she see on earth but harsh and bitter things? Pray what does she see in heaven but pleasant ones?
As she showed herself to the wealthy, so she showed herself to the needy: therefore rich and poor mourn her alike.
Now the Queen lacks a court. What then? Now she enjoys the court of Christ and the praises of the saints, a saint herself.
He who believes that minds are destined to return to their bodies must believe Margaret could not have died.
She (oh, blessed!) has lost the base joys of this false life, she has found the true joys of her new life.
She died, but for Christ, and now in death she lives in Christ. For to die for You, Christ, is to live for you.
So is it hard to die? No. Thus, thus it delights the faithful to depart. And in dying she said, “thus I am also not dying.”
“I am dead, but there is one hope of my former life, that a second life with Christ awaits me.”
She put off the mortal armor of her body, and donned the undying armor of her soul.
“Why should I tarry on earth, a daughter of nature, if the world has so many reasons it should be fled?”
She was inflamed and afire? Why not? She bestowed friendly kisses, but delicious ones for her Christ.
What does love of Christ not compel? She denied herself so as not to deny Christ, lest she be denied by Him.
When sensed her final day was at hand, she hid her rosy face, most devoted to Christ.
“Why should I fear, if Christ is my trusty protection. Why should I fear? To live is my death, to die is my life.”
Her flesh, often at odds with her spirit, was a quarrelsome thing, but now is without quarrel.
“Christ now has the weapons of my aid, the shield of my safety, I do not fear the missiles of death.”
Hell, you have no victory, Jesus has triumphed, and death lacks the sting with which he might work harm.
“To live is sorrowful for me, and it is a gain to die.” Having at length said these words, she gave back her soul to the Father, and He took it.
“If my death shall have been Christ’s victory, and death thus be taken away, do you imagine I can have died?”
“While life is given me, death follows after. But behold, by life I reap sadness, but gain by death.”
“As the new snake revives, his skin sloughed off, so when my body is cast aside a new form awaits me.”
“As much of mind as was within me Christ has preserved, and because of this I am more the Queen than formerly I was in life.”
“While I trade life for death on earth, suddenly in exchange for death a second life is granted me in heaven.”
You ask why she declined to live on earth? Death created the way to a better life in heaven.
“God, God the Father promised us Jesus and granted us Him: His death and His life are made mine.”
“For us He was born as a babe, and He died. Does He not live again? I am again alive.”
As if endowed with the rights of a citizen, she returned to her first origins in the sky: all this globe was her exile.
She whose mind was unaffected by either happy or bitter things now enjoys the happy, fearing no bitterness.
Having previously relied on hope and faith, and on the bounteous sister of these two, she believes and hopes for nothing by hope and faith — for she possesses.
She bore three lilies, the badge of kings. Why not? She was thrice royal, a bride, sister and daughter of kings.
Her calm mind, faith, virtue and religion made for the queen a way to the supernals.
Since now the condition of her prior life is altered, you should say that her prior life was a shadow.
If she passed a good life thanks to Christ and her death was good, the second life she regains is a good one.
Farewell, you everlasting and blessed glory added to haven, whom piety joins and unites to God.
Blessed souls, with whom she of Navarre goes as a comrade, an ever-living queen, a wholly upright matron.
He who strives to be her equal in piety must adore her with all piety, with piety he must pray for her.
“The pledge which Christ gave me with His spilt blood is now wholly given me as a payment in heaven.”
“Christ was the goal of my running, whence I bear off the promised prize and sure rewards of the race.”
“With the flesh, the world and Satan overcome, by my death I bear off the victor’s trophy of my life.”
“I went without my brother, what was dearer to me than him? What if it is allowed me now to enjoy my brother again?”
Cease, artists, to sculpt and paint her: she painted and sculpted herself enough in her writings.
Who will not admire her Mirror, in which is reflected the true image of God?
A thousand reasons are evident, if you ask for a thousand, why she is now a blessed saint in every respect.
Before she was crowned with a fragile crown, but now with an eternal one, having followed the eternal standards of her Leader.
Thrice she cried out the venerable name of Jesus, thrice she was received into the bosom of Him to Whom she had cried.
She lives, hey, she lives, she rests in a friendly sleep, she who is awake in her sleep and alive in her death.
Enter, oh blessed queen, into the meadows of salvation, where the bellwether Lamb leads the snow-white sheep.
A bright priestess shining in a bright garment, now worship at churches not made by human hand, now worship God.
On your brow you are marked with the seal of the living God: now no evils can harm you who are sealed.
Begin to bear in your hand the honor of the victory-palm, either because you conquered, or because you were brave.
Now you are standing before the citadel of the throne, now you are worshiping the Godhead, now you are crying out “hail” to Him Who alone sits on the throne.
Now for you are these true offerings, a casket of pure incense, pure prayers, not without sincerity.
Now you will not fear thirst, nor hunger, nor cold and heat, a saint added to the supernal choirs.
A thousand thousand saints dwell together with with you, and another thousand thousand, and yet again a thousand thousand.
Now the Lamb goes before you to the living fountains, now a table of the living bread is readied for you.
Who can count the joys of the bride and the everliving Bridegroom, whom light without end joins in their bower?
Who can count the kisses piously given by these two, the delights of the soul, the delights of God?
Who can count the spirits’ applause resounding from every quarter, which Gods hall possesses?
The hymn will be a holy marriage-song addressed to sacred ears, the nuptial song will be “sanctus” thrice resounding.
Now sing “let there be light, honor, wisdom, grace and virtue for God, as it was, as it is, as it ever shall be.”