I lift my hands to Thee, O my Shepherd, but my hands do not reach far.
In vain does the sheep in the pit strain upward toward the rim; if the shepherd does not bend down to her, she will not be saved.
Thy grace reaches farther than the rays of the sun. Take hold of my hand, and lead me out of the dungeon. Only one ray of Thy grace — and I shall mount up on eagles' wings.
Beneath a stone a blade of grass struggles to grow, hunched over from seeking the light, pale-faced without light.
Great is the joy to me, a mortal, when I lift the stone and watch the blade of grass straighten itself and turn green.
Is not Thy joy still greater, O Immortal One, when Thou liftest the stone that the world has rolled upon my soul, hunched over and pale-faced?
In vain do I gather wood into a pile to warm my soul, if Thou dost not send down heavenly fire.
In vain do I run; if I have mistaken the road, vain is my running.
All my toil and my sweat are a sacrifice to Thee. If Thou art not well-pleased to receive it, I shall be like a climber up a mountain, buried in snow at the mountain's summit.
For Thou lookest not upon the multitude of labors but upon the yearning of the heart.
After what have you to hurry, my heart? Wherever the eye looks, it sees death. Whatever the hand takes hold of, it feels the grave.
Whatever you find, you find also the fear of losing it. Whatever you come to love fills you with the sorrow of loss.
My restless thoughts, you jostle through my mind like drunkards through a fair, and you fall and die like locusts on the road. All that sent you into me will die, and not one of you will be saved from my grave, except that one which has bound itself to the Graveless One, the Undying One.
Truly, you have entered a grave by entering into me, and like gravediggers you prepare a grave for me.
But when the trumpet sounds, the many-piped and many-voiced trumpet, in my soul, and announces the coming of the Son of God! Then all the mortal yearnings of my heart, and all my mortal thoughts, will be set apart on the left, and will clear the field of heart and mind.
And the Son of God will enter into His own field, and will level all the graves you have prepared for me, like molehills. And the Son of God will wash me and bathe me, and anoint me with myrrh. Not for death but for life.
I have walled myself in, O Lord, from Thy grace. And I dare not peer outside, for Thou art like a terrible wind.
I have built hovels and little huts in my soul, and I fear lest Thou destroy them. But Thou destroyest not so as to leave me homeless, but so as to lead me into a palace, wider and more radiant than the starry universe.
Men have rejected Thy cornerstone, for it is far too great for their hovels and huts. The senseless builders have rejected it, for they know not what to begin to build upon it. The forgetful cannot fathom that Thou art the Builder, and that all their work is this: not to hinder Thee in Thy work.
Too great is Thy cornerstone, and giants are afraid to draw near it. They say: if we begin upon it, when shall we finish?
Poor wretches, how death frightens them away from every good beginning!
How time compels them to buildings of a single day!
Stretch forth to me Thy grace, longer than the rays of the sun, O my Rich One, and I shall dare to stand beside the rejected stone.
Behold, Thou art grace. Come down and raise me up.
Drive death and time away from me, and I shall build with Thee what earthly giants dare not.