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The things we do awaken His anger and justly--cities sacked, calamities, hunger--as our crimes grow worse, they bring worse punishment, and yet God's bounty can make all wrongs vanish, forgotten. We all therefore, exhausted by the horrible, put aside pride, rich clothes, pray for pardon-- In hours He does what we can't do in decades. Such is His justice, such, our reason. The past vague, the present full of tears, the future fearful. Our plea? That this life get this or that life, that prize. For the blind ones, dear God, shine out Your light, love, open the vast weirs of Your compassion. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V CXXXVIII:298. See also Bullock S1, 99, 134; R XXX:457; MSs L, F1, Bo, Cor, Pa, Ra, V1, Ve2; Valgrisi 100. VC refers to papal/imperial wars. Key |
