What rich offering, what obedience,
what humble prayer showing absolute faith
can one present even in part equal
to your merit, at least as I see it?
On your altar I placed my open heart,
your victim long ago, having endured
ceaseless wounds, cleansed with tears: you see me here
captured from within, weak with crying, and
warm with desire. Gone the hopes of youth,
withered, dry rot, feeding a flame within,
burning without end, leaving no ashes.
I realize my sacrifice is not
worthy, is perhaps distasteful to you,
but feel a deep peace in this strong worship.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V LXXVII:77. From B A1:55:30. See also R XXXIII:102. Key