In my heart is such mutability,
That all the fine words I so quickly say
Are rendered null by my futility;
Upon the heights of praise I cannot stay.
Rooted I would be, but, a withered leaf,
Made sapless by my own inconstancy,
Tossed in the fickle breezes of mischance,
I stand revealed in my hypocrisy.
Into Your truth, then, graft me very fast.
Blow, Holy Breath, return me to that vine
Where, into mergence, all my self is cast,
Then You will lift to heights I may call mine.
Then You will hold me, driftless, unto You,
Whence is all being, all stability.
Here is a root to hold all that I do,
You, Who are life, must be my constancy.