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I'd bear the cross, walk behind my master, up that abruptly-steep narrow incline, I'd glimpse something of the light unveiled to Peter, of things--truth--the senses can't see. If I can't beg this mercy now, it's not God's illumination--grace--is not there, alas, I lack that inward eye--knowledge-- to see human hope is a fragile dream, this something seen through a glass darkly. May my heart, a humble pure beggar, draw near His holy table God's lamb offers gently, without competition. Though love our true friend's hand gives Himself as food. May I fill this pit--void--one day forever. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V V:165; R I:393. See also B S1:5:87. Translation: Lefevre-Deumier 97. Key |
