The tilth of this my field by plough and hoe
Yields me good hope--but more the fostering sun
Of Sense divine that quickens me within,
Whose rays those many minor stars outshone--
That it is destined in high heaven to show
Mercy, and grant my prayer; so I may win
The end Thy gifts betoken, enter in
The realm reserved for me from earliest time.
Christ prayed but 'If it may be,' knowing well
He might not shun that cup so terrible:
His angel answered, that the law sublime
Ordained his death. I prayed not thus, and mine--
Was mine then sent from Hell?--
Made answer diverse from that voice divine.