And he muses

AND HE MUSES:

My hands have grown as white as is the linen,
on which their brittle tiredness rests.
I thank You, God, Who gently quenched
the last blaze-up of earthly lusts of mine.

Now I am silent, white inside.
I only can love You still, easing all my strife;
I’ve kissed away this tiresome life,
have grown unconscious of the world outside.

I know: it won’t be very long,
before they’ll sing a fun’ral song
and neighbours lay me on a stealthily put ready board.

For mother’s kiss and arms spread tenderly,
for father’s boundless comfort, pity
and for Your love, I thank You, Lord!