From His seed He meant to bring forth good fruit,
and so for my heart's barren, arid soil
there's a brook runs from a fountain a key
each of us has can open or close shut.
First He gazes at me, then separates
His seed from the mud I've buried it in,
which He scrapes, digs, cleans, melts away; never
humble trust went astray which His thoughts rule.
His deep experience guides the stream so
justly, with stately rhythm, so gravely--
he extends the cup to where the stain sinks
in, penetrates. To cure a despairing,
despaired of, bitter heart He gave His sweet
the only soul who understood His ways.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V CLV:315. See also B S1:174:172. Key