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What rich offering, what obedience,
what humble prayer showing absolute faith can one present even in part equal to your merit, at least as I see it? On your altar I placed my open heart, your victim long ago, having endured ceaseless wounds, cleansed with tears: you see me here captured from within, weak with crying, and warm with desire. Gone the hopes of youth, withered, dry rot, feeding a flame within, burning without end, leaving no ashes. I realize my sacrifice is not worthy, is perhaps distasteful to you, but feel a deep peace in this strong worship. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V LXXVII:77. From B A1:55:30. See also R XXXIII:102. Key |
