One thing of You, these last days, have I prayed;
One thing for which my soul I thought You'd made:
Of poverty taken, obedience assumed
I spoke, a chaste life on Your altars laid.
Not long ere now, my mind a house two-roomed;
In one, my restless spirit paced and fumed;
The other, fading, crumbled into dust
What else Your altars sweetly had perfumed.
And shall I count Your reckoning unjust?
My prayer denied, still my frail spirit must
Adore You: Who in scales of love has weighed
Each prayer of mine, breaks not His sacred trust.