Petter Dasse’s
Lament
concerning his
illness of six years
A body full of
grit and stone
Countless
infirmities has known;
And yet I ween
with pen or quill
One never can
describe such ill.
Such is the life
I’ve now acquired,
Of pain I am both
sick and tired.
At times I wish my
end were nigh:
I long for death,
yet do not die.
The burden that my
back has bent
Is known to God
omniscient,
While others can
go forth and back:
I am the one
stretched on the rack.
The beast that
each day pulls the plough
Is better off than
me, I vow;
Should it
withstand its daily toil,
Nothing at night
its peace will spoil.
All day my pain
won’t let me think,
At night I cannot
sleep a wink,
My life is almost
rent in twain,
When may I e’er
find rest again?
Shall I squeeze
out a single drop,
My mind beside
itself says stop;
’Tis like an awl
or knife that cuts
Stabbed ’twixt my
member and my guts.
For six years
weakness has held sway,
I have not had a
quiet day.
Oh God of Mercy,
grant me peace:
Year seven me from
gaol release!
The Sabbath comes
each seventh day,
Prepare my case,
Jesu, I pray
That for my trials
I after this
May share with you
an hour of bliss.
I your disciple
beg reprieve,
That from your school
I may have leave,
As master you were
sometimes brash,
But God be praised
for every lash!
If I, oh God, have
made you wroth
You now have
flayed me, by my troth,
I’m now oppressed
by countless hurts
And well receive
my just deserts.
What are such wages
when compared
With what from no
man should be spared.
A thousand years
of torment can
Ne’er pay the debt
incurred by man.
When though on
others my eyes play
Who are of
selfsame ore and clay,
I find their
sufferings are nought
With pains
compared with which I’m fraught.
Each seems to have
sufficent load
But when
apportioned what I’m owed
’Tis weighed by
merest ounce and jot,
And double weight
would seem my lot.
Yes, wondered must
have many a one
Just what the
wretched man has done
That day and night
so pained is he:
Shall he thus an
example be?
Is there then no
one in the land
As great a sinner
as this man?
To injury they
insult add
And many deem him
to be bad.
No matter what
their judgments be,
My illness stays
the same to me;
Should heaven, sea
and sky and earth
Take pity, it’s of
little worth.
My wife, who time
and time again
Has heard me sigh
and e’er complain,
Knows hardly,
faced with such duress,
Where she would be
for piteousness.
My son and
daughter, family,
Relations, can’t
have failed to see
Just how much
sighing and brave tears
I have endured
down through the years.
And should my pain
need proof entire
And testimonials
require,
Ask every trunnel,
every board
That in my bed is
neatly stored.
Ask every
house-beam for sure proof,
Ask walls and
joints, ask rafters, roof,
Ask chairs and
tables – all will tell
Just how things
are with me as well.
Though childbirth
often is unkind
To women when they
are confined;
Once to their
child they’ve given birth
Their pain gives
way to joyous mirth.
I though have
carried and have fed
The foetus that
will leave me dead,
For six years
borne it undesired,
It’s hardly odd
that I’ve grown tired.
Oh God, our
Saviour and our King,
Who can transform
most everything,
Transform my pain
while I’ve yet breath!
To life or to a blessed death.
No comments:
Post a Comment