Skip to content (Press Enter)
- Full in the panting heart of Rome,
Beneath the apostle’s crowning dome,
From pilgrims’ lips that kiss the ground,
Breathes in all tongues one only sound,
“God bless our Pope, the great, the good.”
- The golden roof, the marble walls,
The Vatican’s majestic halls,
The note redouble, till it fills
With echoes sweet the seven hills.
- Then surging through each hallowed gate.
Where martyrs glory, in peace, await;
It sweeps beyond the solemn plain,
Peals over Alps, across the main.
- From torrid south to frozen north,
That wave harmonious stretches forth,
Yet strikes no chord more true to Rome’s
Than rings within our hearts and homes.