Pursued by all and hunted shall pass away my years
Till they will have exhausted the fountain of my tears,
Till I shall feel that each man for me is but a foe,
Till my own self thus hated by all I shall not know,
Till endless pain and anguish my heart have so oppressed
That I may curse my mother whom I, of all, loved best—
When utmost cruel hatred like love seems to my eye,
My suffering forgetting, perhaps I might then die.
And if, by all accursèd, I die a stranger, they
Upon the street my body to dogs shall throw away,
And him who sets them on me, that they may tear my heart,
O him, my gracious Father, the highest crown impart,
And him who stones will on me with hatred throw, O give
My Lord, that he in glory eternally may live!
Thus only can I, Father, sing praises thanking Thee,
That graciously Thou gavest this earthly boon to me.
I do not bend my forehead for other gifts, Thy ire,
Thy curses and Thy hatred are all that I desire,
To feel how disappearing my breath by Thine is quelled,
And in the night eternal I traceless am dispelled.
THE MIDNIGHT HOUR OF SORROW…
The midnight hour of sorrow on brazen bell doth toll,
And sleep, life’s toll-collector, comes not to take the toll.
On roads so often trodden Death wants to lead for aye,
And Life and Death comparing, which is the best to weigh;
But now my reason’s balance unchangèd still doth stand,
For ’tween them both is fixèd, unmoved the pointing hand.
