My soul, gaze at your noble Maker from
Whom you come, look at the high beginning,
and you will see He sent you down here to
make anew what your mistake destroyed. So
He hoped. You dwell on that other shore's edge,
never far from endless splendor or pain--
your choice; it depends whether you've been drawn
to the world's sirens or have shunned their songs.
Ah! don't let the world's music beguile you,
its beat turn you from Him and what You knew
at first: those who offend God made His wounds,
Grace isn't a hidden release, but a
beautiful, steadfast, and sustaining light,
when you repent and really change your ways.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V LI:211. See also Bullock S1, 86, 128. Key