I often envied

I OFTEN ENVIED

I often envied many of the silent dead,
but now that I am ill, I pray: “No Lord, not yet.
Don’t let me perish in this cruel grief.
Grant me Your blessing, for it’s joy I need.”

No feasts, which in a fever colour cheeks deep-red,
until one sees the blushing of the morning-red;
no searing passion, like a fiery comet shooting,
or killing in a blaze like sudden strokes of lightning.

I only ask Your faithfulness, so steady, full and true,
quickening as the morning-dew:
love like a drink, cool and refreshing me.

If only You will near my bed consolingly,
I feel the cup of life put to my mouth more steadily
and know I will recover from God’s joys, delighting me.