All wrongs seem to him, through his love, purest bliss.
He loveth a rose, and himself is a rose.
He loveth himself; and seeks love for its woes.”
Just so is the soul. Its tale, just parrot’s tale.
O where is the One to whom all souls make wail?
Where is the man, feeble, who’s yet innocent?
His heart, Solomon and his whole armament.30
When he, with tears bitter, is heard to complain,
The seven vaults of heaven re-echo the strain.
In anguish he groans; God, in mercy, him hears.