Not in myself do I live
but in such great hope, that I
die of longing to die.

I no longer live in me;
lacking God, from life I’m driven;
lacking God or self to live in,
what, then, can this living be?
True life must come, by and by.
A thousand deaths is the fee,
since life must come, by and by,
and I die, longing to die.

This life that I now endure
is not life but its denial;
a continuous death, my trial
till I dwell with you secure.
Gather, my Lord, with what sure
contempt from this life I fly
and I die, longing to die.

Absent, as I am, from you,
what life can I have but death
who suffer, in drawing breath,
what the greatest death can do?
I regard my fate with rue;
my misfortunes multiply;
I die with longing to die.

The fish that’s pulled from the wave
finds balm of a certain sort:
the death he suffers is short
and brings the rest he may crave.
But what death could be as grave
as mine, who in life must sigh,
and live more, the more to die?

What comfort I taste is brief
finding you in bread and wine:
to know you cannot be mine
recalls me to greater grief.
I sorrow without relief
for the sight that you deny,
and die, for I long to die.

My joy, Lord, is to believe
that I shall behold you clear;
but doubting you will appear
causes me doubly to grieve
when such terror I conceive,
and harbor a hope so high,
that I die, longing to die.