Michelangelo Buonarroti

Lxvii. _a prayer for faith._

 Next Poem          

Non è più bassa.

There's not on earth a thing more vile and base
Than, lacking Thee, I feel myself to be:
For pardon prays my own debility,
Yearning in vain to lift me to Thy face.

Stretch to me, Lord, that chain whose links enlace
All heavenly gifts and all felicity--
Faith, whereunto I strive perpetually,
Yet cannot find (my fault) her perfect grace.

That gift of gifts, the rarer 'tis, the more
I count it great; more great, because to earth
Without it neither peace nor joy is given.

If Thou Thy blood so lovingly didst pour,
Let not that bounty fail or suffer dearth,
Withholding Faith that opes the doors of heaven.

Next Poem 

 Back to Michelangelo Buonarroti