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If, like Zacchaeus, I were deeply moved, by an intense longing impelled to gaze at that noble Sun who gave the world light, I'd climb so high the crowd's shadow'd grow dim, and no longer influence my weak mind. I'd pray my worthless heart could shelter Him, be an inn His light would warm, dwelling there. I'd taste, know something of what lies beyond this world's so-called pleasures, then, gay, humble, in my heart and mind a sincere faith, come to that grand feast, give all I have as food. How I wish I had heard Him speak to me: Rid yourself of corruption, trust God's love to forgive, preserve you forevermore. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V XXIX:189. See also B S1:57:113; R X:418; in MSs V2 and L; Valgrisi 57. A sonnet on Zacchaeus who gave half his property to the poor and made fourfold restitution to those he had wronged with false accusations. Reference: Luke 19:1-10. See English 17th poem by Francis Quarles, "On Zacchaeus". Key |
