What manner of love

dost Thou possess

that findeth me

in mine regress,

when I hath trodden

o’er the edge

and put to flame

mine every bridge,

when I hath hidden

mine face from Thee

and donned mine mask

of worldly glee,

and through the valley

o’ Despair,

to curs’d lands

I built mine lair,

what love, sweet Christ,

dost Thou possess,

that Thou, my Light,

to death extends,

that tho’ mine hands,

have nothing gained,

and all else dies

—— Thy love remains?