* * *

The eremites of old, all of the world unspotted,
That they might reach the heights to holy saints allotted,
That they might fortify the heart against life's stress,
Composed such prayers as still comfort us and bless.
But none has ever stirred in me such deep emotions
As that the priest recites at Lententide devotions;
The words which mark for us that saddest season rise
Most often to my lips, and in that prayer lies
Inscrutable support when I, a sinner, hear it:
«Oh, Lord of all my days, avert Thou from my spirit
Both melancholy sloth and poisonous love of power,
That secret snake, and joy in gossip of an hour.
But let me see my sins, O God, and not another's,
Nor sit in judgment on the lapse that is my brother's,
And quicken Thou in me the breath and being of
Forbearance and of meekness, chastity and love.»