That made enshrined art my idol still;
And many a flying shade I chased before,
As my chief good was but a specious ill!
What, if when death has wrack’d his power to kill,
The living death beyond the grave be mine.
The pencil and the chisel have no skill
To chain such thoughts to rest. O Love Divine
Who didst spread wide thy arms on Calvary,
Be thou my refuge, Lord! for I have none save thine!
Michael Angelo.