[136] You boldly ceased to love the God of yore ·
Now he appears with dark revengeful brow:
»You who called servitude my precious lore
And left my house too proud to make the bow ·
Are you not bent by a more shameful yoke
Do you not feel your wrung arm's force decay
More than by this sonorous chain you broke?
Must you not cry for pity · watch and pray?«
Yea! as I neared the Saviour's bloody feet
l now exalt a new God whom I greet
With quivering lips · and equal extasies
Consume me and less sober sympathies
When last light of the holy evening wanes
In my cathedral's gold and purple panes.
Englische Fassung des Gedichts ›Teppich‹[137]