No earthly object is more base and vile
Than I, without you, miserable am.
My spirit now, midst errors multiform.
Weak, wearied, and infirm, pardon implores.
O Lord most high! Extend to me that chain
Which with itself links every gift divine:
Chiefest, to faith, I bid my soul aspires,
Flying from sense, whose paths conduct to death.
The rarer be this gift of gifts, the more
May it to me abound; and still the more,
Since the world yields not true content and peace.
By faith alone the fount of bitter tears
Can spring within my heart, made penitent:
No other key unlocks the gate of heaven.
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