This dungeon-house of clay,
Where I drink the water of sorrow and care,
And the ashes of emptiness are my fare,
From day to day.”
“Where is thy patience, O My Queen?
Let Thy sorrow be sore as it may,
I heal it as if it never had been,
When I speak, it has passed away.
My riches of glory for ever are thine,
Thy might has prevailed over Me,