« AnteriorContinuar »
EAR JESU, when, when will it be
That I no more shall break with Thee!
When shall this war of passions cease!
Here I repent, and sin again;
Now I revive, and now am slain— Slain with the same unhappy dart
Which, oh too often, wounds my heart.
When, dearest Lord, when shall I be
'Tis not, alas, on this low earth
That such poor flowers can find a birth; They only spring above the skies
Where none can live, till here he dies!
Then let me die that I may go
And dwell where those bright lilies grow,
No dangerous fruit, no tempting Eve,
Thus says my song: But does my heart
Why should I not? What do I find
What is this meat, and drink, and sleep, That such poor things from heaven should keep?
What is this honour, or great place,
Or bag of money, or fair face?
What's all the world, that thus we should
Still long to dwell with flesh and blood?