Inward harmony of dreadful mirth
Tossing conscience hither and thither
As the pilgrim wanders on earth
And careful to water lest the flower wither.
That flower of faith that resteth not
On inward disposition nor outward show,
But in unspotted goodness, O happy lot
For those whom the love of God know!
Futile in thinking, ye dreadful dignitaries
That roam this good earth sowing sin —
Ye may serve thy many principalities,
But love in thee abideth not, but can begin.
Make new thy minds, O many headed beasts!
Turn back from the vain imaginings of thy flesh.
Abandon thy sorrows buttressed by feasts —
Soon cometh the one who the floor shall thresh.