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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 |
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Notes: From V CLV:315. See also B S1:174:172. Key |
