If I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness;
If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face;
If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:-
Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake;
Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in!