Long have I struggled with my pain
And sought for peace and rest,
To still the madness in my brain,
The tumult in my breast.
There is no hope unless Thou heed
My abject misery—
Pale God that on the Cross dost bleed
I turn at last to Thee!

I walked where poisonous plants abound;
In search of wisdom high
I stood before the Sphinx—and found
No answer to my cry.
Since truth refused her to my will,
I plucked in petulant wrath,
With reckless hand, the flowers of ill
That grew about my path.

Then sin drew nigh in woman's guise
And wrecked my hopes of peace.
Her body's joy was all my prize,
Her clasp my only ease:
And so to kiss her mouth I yearned
That seemed so soft and fresh—
But knew what thing she was when burned
The brand upon my flesh!

Aye, 'twas a leper I caressed—
(Beneath the heavy weight
Of guilt, O Lord, I sink oppressed!)
And I was reprobate!
The good, the pure that I had known,
They passed me with a frown;
I dared not stand where from the throne
The Face of God looks down.

Out of the depths of misery
Thy goodness I entreat;
Like some poor hunted beast I fly
To cast me at Thy feet.
Roses of blood I bring to Thee,
A heart that craves for grace—
O Jesus of Gethsemane,
Turn not from me Thy face!

And though the Sphinx her mystery weird
Still offers as of yore,
And poisoned flowers their head have reared
About the senses' door,
No riddle has a stranger sound
Than this which tells for sooth
That peace in humble faith is found,
In God alone the truth!