Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care,
Thou didst seek after me,--that Thou didst wait,
Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate,
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?
O, strange delusion, that I did not greet
Thy blest approach! and, O, to heaven how lost,
If my ingratitude's unkindly frost
Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet!
How oft my guardian angel gently cried,
"Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see
How He persists to knock and wait for thee!"
And, O, how often to that voice of sorrow,
"To-morrow we will open." I replied!
And when the morrow came, I answered still, "To-morrow."

From the Spanish of LOPE DE VEGA.
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