My soul fast cleaveth to the dust;
My heart within is dead and cold;
I'm blown about by every gust;
No certain anchorage I hold.
I fain would lift mine eyes on high,
But, all unpurged, they cannot see;
I feel like one about to die, —
Have mercy, Jesu, quicken me!
My life is like the untilled land,
On which no flower or fruitage grows;
'Tis like a waste of arid sand,
A wintry landscape clothed with snows.
All empty are the vanished years;
Shall like the past the future be?
'Gainst this I plead with prayers and tears,
Have mercy, Jesu, quicken me!
My life is like to plants that creep,
Like plants that droop and touch the ground;
No seed I sow, no harvest reap,
All barren as the months go round.
Uproot me then, and plant again;
I would be fruitful unto thee;
Prune, cleanse me, Lord, I'll scorn the pain:
Have mercy, Jesu, quicken me!