LXXXI: Pretty Words

About a very sundry Saturday,

before the Sun was risen o’er the hill

came out a man with unkempt hair to say:

“Do with me, God, whatever thing you will!”

“Enough with wills of mine,” said he, to all,

“forgive my sins, and know no more henceforth!

Grip me as like thy clay, and make me small,

have hands upon me, give my soul some worth!”

If I should say that these words were a lie,

judge me; but I should say—I know his plea:

keen words like his will stop before the sky,

look now—that unkempt man at morn was me.

Make not a prayer for heaven that is sweet,

not lest you dearly wish your own defeat.