My strength and my salvation; there, the grave
Ready beneath my feet, and Heaven in view
I to the King of Terrors say, Come, Death, ...
Come quickly! Thou too wert a stricken deer,
Julian, ... God pardon the unhappy hand
That wounded thee!... but whither didst thou go
For healing? Thou hast turn’d away from Him,
Who saith, Forgive as ye would be forgiven
And that the Moorish sword might do thy work,
Received the creed of Mecca: with what fruit