"Woe, woe! for the last time be recalled to the duties of thy office!"
But Amfortas, distracted with grief, raises himself upon his couch. "Yes, woe!" he cries, "woe to me! My father! hero thrice blessed, toward whom the angels bent; I who coveted death; it is thy death I have caused. Oh, thou who now beholdest, in divine light, the Redeemer himself, implore him that he may grant me death at last! Death! death! only grace! May the terrible wound and venom cease,—the wasted heat grow cold! I invoke thee, my father, cry to him: Saviour, grant peace to my son."
"Uncover the tabernacle," cry the knights, pressing in disorder about Amfortas; "fulfil thy priestly office; thy father commands thee; thou must, thou must!" But the wretched man, in a frenzy of despair, throws himself into the midst of them, tearing his garments. "No, no! never more! Ah! I already feel the shadow of death upon me, and must I return once again to life? Which of you would force me to live since you can give me nothing but death? Behold, the wound yawns, see the poison and my blood! Steep your swords in my wound even to the hilt! Rise, heroes! Destroy with one blow the sinner and his torment; and the Grail will then shine brightly for you by its own virtue!"
All have drawn back in terror. Parsifal then advances solemnly; stretches forth the divine lance, and with its point touches the side of Amfortas. "One arm only is propitious," he says; "the lance that opened the wound can alone close it. Be healed, redeemed, and saved! May thy suffering, which gave supreme strength to compassion, and the power of the purest wisdom to the timorous brother, be sanctified! I restore to you the sacred lance!" And while Amfortas and Gurnemanz kneel to do him homage, and Kundry, delivered at last, dies at his feet with a look of gratitude, Parsifal ascends toward the altar, and raises for the first time the Grail in all its splendor above the heads of the enraptured knights.