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|
From V V:165; R I:393. See also B S1:5:87. Translation: Lefevre-Deumier 97. Key