No offense to the Guggenheim’s current blockbuster – but move over “Russia!” The exclamation point would better belong to “Prague: The Crown of Bohemia 1347-1437,” which just opened at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“Prague” comprises some 160 stunning objects, many of them never before shown in public, from collections in the Czech Republic, Europe, and America. In terms of quality, cultural significance, and curatorial intelligence, “Prague” is up there with the Met’s recent shows of Byzantine art and Renaissance tapestries. It had me giddy from beginning to end.

The exhibition brims with spectacular secular and religious art: sculptures, reliquaries, textiles, illuminated manuscripts, stained glass, panel paintings, and more. The show is organized chronologically and thematically. It is divided into three sections that represent artists affiliated with Prague and the patronage of the Bohemian crown. The exhibition begins during the reign of Charles IV (who was crowned Holy Roman emperor in 1355) and continues under that of his two sons, Wenceslas IV (Charles’s successor as king of Bohemia) and Sigismund (who ruled as king of Hungary, Holy Roman emperor, and also, after the death of Wenceslas, king of Bohemia). From the moment I entered “Prague” through its tall Gothic arch – and found myself face to face with the gleaming gold “Reliquary Bust of Saint Ludmila” (c. 1350), I was transfixed by one delicious masterpiece after another.

“Ludmila,” a life-size, delicately veiled, childlike countenance in gilded silver, rock crystal, and gems, is the perfect hostess for “Prague.” She is delightfully demure and giddy. She has large black eyes that appear to roll upward as if she were attempting to avoid or avert your gaze; her tightly pursed smile looks as if she were trying hard to swallow an increasingly mounting laugh.

What follows is a series of monumental, jaw-dropping extravagances: the crowned “Reliquary Bust for the Arm of Saint John the Baptist” (after 1335); the scrumptiously flowing panel painting “Virgin and Child” (1345-50); the Met’s masterfully carved ivory “Saddle, Possibly of Wenceslas IV” (c. 1410-19); enormous gold and silver scepters, reliquaries, and monstrances; intricately embroidered silk and silver chasubles; elaborately illustrated bibles; as well as numerous gracefully carved sculptures (in wood, stone, silver, gold, and ivory) of saints, prophets, pietas, and of the enthroned virgin and child.

Among the recurring themes in the show are images of saints, pietas, crucifixions, and Christ and the virgin. We also encounter a whole range of “Vera Icons,” images of the linen towel St. Veronica used to wipe Christ’s face, which miraculously retained his image. Christ looks very much the same in all these Veronica veils, where his disembodied, wide-eyed head is both embedded within and hovering before the veil. Yet each is unique, as if we were seeing the same art-school assignment performed by a number of masters.

“Prague” is too much to take in with one visit. The exhibition deserves repeated viewing.

One of the many works that overwhelmed me was the appropriately titled panel painting of the virgin and child, “The Madonna of Most” (mid-14th century). The “most” Byzantine of the Bohemian icons, “The Madonna” is a gorgeous, tender clash of influences: Italian and Byzantine, Northern and Southern, early Renaissance and Medieval.

The figures’ pearlescent skin and willowy, full-volume bodies act as windows into the flatness of the goldleaf plane. The rich range of opalescent violet, fiery red, and patterned gold in their robes is, alone, enough to hold you. As I became aware of the almost exact mirroring of Christ’s and Mary’s faces – hers large, his small, both rotating simultaneously toward and away from the viewer – the painting’s complexity alerted me that I had to move on if I wanted to see the rest of the works.

Among the small pleasures of the exhibition is “Model Book” (1410-30), a leather case belonging to an itinerant manuscript illuminator. It contains 14 small wooden panels, each with four stylized drawings in silver point – wispy, feathery portraits of animals, Christ, the virgin, angels, and apostles. Equally arresting is “Table cloth From the Last Supper,” a classically plain red, yellow, and white striped rectangle given to Charles IV by King Louis of Hungary in 1348.

The show has been exquisitely installed by Barbara Drake Boehm, curator of the Met’s department of medieval art and the Cloisters – a healthy reminder that the medieval department at the Met is alive and kicking. Its galleries, painted rich shades of red, violet, gray, and green, set off beautifully the particularities of each discerningly placed object. “Set of Nested Beakers” (1310-35), for example, stopped me dead in my tracks – not so much because of the objects, per se (which are superb), but because of their perfect placement in their vitrine.

Though “Prague” occasionally reminded me of a glossy tourist brochure, the large photographs of castles and cathedrals only add to the magic. Not only did I want to visit the Czech Republic immediately; I was so immersed in its culture I felt I was already there.

Until January 3 (1000 Fifth Avenue, at 82nd Street, 212-535-7710).