XXXIV
With first grey dawn of day the hermit rose
To pray, as was his custom every morn,
And with him knelt Sordino, in contrition,
For through the hours of night the awful vision
Of wanton murder to his mind was borne,
And robbed him of all rest and soul-repose.
And to the holy man he did confess,
And begged his absolution, which was granted,
But still the deed so weighed upon his heart,
That when his two companions did depart,
He fain would have his own death-dirges chanted,
To make an end of harrowing distress.
Such is the soul, that once attuned to peace,
Must pass through Becca’s vale of dark remorse,
In whom the joy of heav’n and grief of hell
Are seeking one another to expel;
Well then if the afflicted take recourse
To Him who calms the storm and gives surcease.
The ruing of our sins, the soul’s repentance,
The coming to oneself, and meeting God,
Is, after all, the only way to rest,
All else is but a vain and foolish quest,
A hiding from the terror of His rod,
A coward’s quailing for a righteous sentence.
For it is then, and only then, the Father
Can meet His child, such as it left His home,
Bestow the kiss of pardon and the love
Of ring and raiment from His treasure trove,
And bid him to the Palace with Him come,
There with the tranquil spirits ever gather.
Sordino now, like Israel of old,
Passed through the inner struggle with the Lord,
Until the morning of his soul appeared,
And with the light of victory him cheered,
The brook of bitter weeping he did ford,
And found beyond the comfort of God’s fold.