My King - Nachmanides

Ere time began, ere age to age had thrilled, 

I waited in his storehouse, as he willed; 

He gave me being, but, my years fulfilled, 

I shall be summoned back before the King. 

He called the hidden to the light of day, 

To right and left, each side the fountain lay, 

From out the stream and down the steps, the way 

That led me to the garden of the King. 

Thou gavest me a light my path to guide, 

To prove my heart's recesses still untried; 

And as I went, thy voice in warning cried: 

"Child! fear thou him who is thy God and King!" 

True weight and measure learned my heart from thee; 

If blessings follow, then what joy for me! 

If naught but sin, all mine the shame must be, 

For that was not determined by the King. 

I hasten, trembling, to confess the whole 

Of my transgressions, ere I reach the goal 

Where mine own words must witness 'gainst my soul, 

And who dares doubt the writing of the King? 

Erring I wandered in the wilderness, 

In passion's grave night sinking powerless: 

Now deeply I repent, in sore distress, 

That I kept not the statutes of the King! 

With worldly longings was my bosom fraught, 

Earth's idle toys and follies all I sought; 

Ah ! when he judges joys so dearly bought, 

How greatly shall I fear my Lord and King! 

Now conscience-stricken, humbled to the dust, 

Doubting himself, in thee alone his trust, 

He shrinks in terror back, for God is just 

How can a sinner hope to reach the King? 

Oh ! be thy mercy in the balance laid, 

To hold thy servant's sins more lightly weighed, 

When, his confession penitently made, 

He answers for his guilt before the King. 

Thine is the love, O God ! and thine the grace, 

That folds the sinner in its mild embrace; 

Thine the forgiveness bridging o'er the space 

'Twixt man's works and the task set by the King. 

Unheeding all my sins, I cling to thee! 

I know that mercy will thy footstool be: 

Before I call, oh ! do thou answer me, 

For nothing dare I claim of thee, my King! 

O thou who makest guilt to disappear, 

My help, my hope, my rock, I will not fear; 

Though thou the body hold in dungeon drear, 

The soul has found the palace of the King.

---

Nachmanides [Moses ben Nachman] (1194 - 1270) Spain (died in exile in Israel)

Translator not stated 

Source: The sacred books and early literature of the East; with an historical survey and descriptions

by Charles Francis Horne, Parke, 1917