Having cast aside the trinkets of the world,
I lie in His arms contentedly curled.
Draping around me His light, the sole raiment,
His smile within, makes for all my merriment.
Lining my eyes, tears of Joy, His mystic collyrium,
In every sound heard is His substrate hum
Whenever I go, following me is His touchless caress,
Which to feel and hold has become the being’s stress
It is felt in both, the hands that wound and the hands that salvage,
In every sacred benediction, in every vindictive rage.
How can I hold a grudge, what can I resent,
When all that comes, is by His grace sent.
