Death, whose guise is end to sorrow,
sells salvation 'til tomorrow.

I don't know what to call You.
"Father," which should denote familiarity,
seems a foreign word to me.

I open up my idle knife—
that dagger look-alike—
and fold it back
and pass the time.

Morning steps out in its gilded gown.

S'éloigner de l'amour
est s'approcher de la mort.

Mere silence, too, could be
a melancholic melody.

The quickness of rage—
that murderous blight—
discards self-control
for counterfeit might.

Careless continuation invites deliberate debilitation.

I'm made of lead
as I'm laid in bed,
heavy-laden.

I drown when I divert from love,
dragged into a crushing depth;
and lo, the way whereon I trod—
one whose gate is wide and broad—
does lead me unto certain death.

Hear You the screaming of my soul—
that bellow from below?

Am I not either one—
a drought or a flood?

I should not be alive;
I defiled Your holy name.
Now my breath testifies
to the truth of Your grace.

O, stubborn heart! Thou harkest not to Wisdom's words;
and forsooth,
for thou hast been inclined to death ever since thy youth.

What good are noble words from a vain heart?
You desire truth in the inward parts.