O strange languor! O mindless craving!
Descend, my God, into this worthless ash,
Let Thy flame, that knows no bounds,
Kindle a thousand fires within me!
My soul is like a lily in the crucible,
Where the petals, already faint with light,
Become rays, golden and fierce,
And every small vein a rapacious touch.
Look, my Beloved: these roses of wounds -
These are not cuts, this is a living fountain!
These are not rubies of blood - these are lips
That yearn for Thy pale finger.
O salt's sweetness! O honeyed wound!
It is like a chalice, drunk on heaven,
Where love flows, red and thick,
To wash away Thy wounds and cross.
Drink my tears! Let them, like pearls,
Die in Thy joyous sea.
Bestow on me Thy knife-kiss,
Dissolve me swiftly in the captive light!
I melt like snows beneath a summer gaze,
Forgetting shame before the eternal choir.
O tender death! O beautiful murder!
Where the spirit dies - there it shall rise again.
Pour through my heart, wine-purple,
Where every drop is an abyss of mercy!
I am Thy garden, I am Thy fervent altar,
Where blood and lilies are Thy highest gift.
Burn within me! Shine! Kiss my dust,
Until the world perishes in Thine eyes!