A new fondness grows to Thy crucible,
The singeing of Thy flames become a caress,
All these wrenchings most insufferable
Become now Thy cherished embraces.

Who or what shalt halt Thy hand
That carries out its imperial remits,
Ours is but to submit and yield
To all Thy storms and Thy tumults.

Is there day to this protracted night,
Our ills fade to the arrival of dawn?
All becomings are in Thy will’s orbit,
Grant us a reprieve of Thy morn.

Our perennial cry must too much grate,
For such is the lot of our breathing dust.