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I don't forgive my heart when I offend, nor do you ask me, my Lord, endlessly to blame myself: on the cross Your Son bore away one of my terrors; in Heaven He removes another; here He paid, there He makes You see how I came to misspend so many years, and the age-old traps and new lies the world and one's opponents set up as bait. Noble and just, He hides me, unjust, vile, under His sheltering cloak that disguises His presence and that His works are His. I show Him my sadness, cry over my faults, not armed with "I did this," but shielded by faith no-one can destroy. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V CLVIII:318. See also B S1:176:173; no MSs; Valgrisi 177. A twenty-third sonnet in a series meditating Christ. Key |
