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

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

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

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

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.

Morning steps out in its gilded gown.

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

Mere silence, too, could be
a melancholic melody.

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