Ah, Fate’s avenging hand should be content.
If Thou art God, on utter mercy throned
Above the splendour of the star-hung sky,
Waste not Thy pity on the half-condoned
Whose weakling sins have never reached on high;
But lay Thy hand on each sin-whitened head
And grant to us of Peace abandonéd
Not Hell, but only slumber, when we die.