Not mine the surge and wash of energies
Or the restless quiver that blindly excites.
Not mine the gluttony and rapacious hunger,
Of fluid life-force I the body am the shaper.

Not mine the loves and losses of heart,
Miracle place where lives all dead past.
Conjurer of pang’s sting and illusory void
Am I not, only a body composed solid.

Not mine the perambulating muse of mind,
Exiled wanderer of realms of every kind. 
Host of dream and memory and muse
Am I not, only a body of pragmatic use.

Endow on my matter force, ardour and knowledge,
May I body partake of all Thy high privilege.