Soul, by thy deep demerit sore distressed,
Dear to thy Lord — ah! why by woe subdued?
He asks thy love: — but thou wouldst love exclude
For love must fail, if hope forsake the breast!
Muse on the promise of eternal rest
To thee, whom late from nothingness He drew;
And let the strength He gives that prize to sue
Be in warm strains of grateful praise confessed!
His loving kindness still invites and cheers;
Oh, cease to embitter with despondent tears
The manna which impearls his mercy-seat!
Weep for thy sin — but mitigate thy grief
With blessed hope: to implore a full relief
Where pity hath no bounds, itself is sweet.
Carlo Maggi (17th century) Italy
Translated by John Sheppard
Source: The Foreign Sacred Lyre: Metrical Versions of Religious Poetry from the German, French, and Italian, by John Sheppard, Jackson & Walford, 1857
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