(Lyra Eucharistica, second edition, 1864.)
Jesus, do I love Thee?Thou art far above me,Seated out of sightHid in Heavenly LightOf most highest height.Martyred hosts implore Thee,Seraphs fall before Thee,Angels and Archangels,Cherub throngs adore Thee;Blessed She that bore Thee!All the Saints approve Thee,All the Virgins love Thee.I show as a blotBlood hath cleansed not,As a barren spotIn Thy fruitful lot.I, fig-tree fruit-unbearing;Thou, righteous Judge unsparing:What canst Thou do more to meThat shall not more undo me?Thy Justice hath a sound--Why cumbereth it the ground?Thy Love with stirrings strongerPleads—Give it one year longer.Thou giv'st me time: but whoSave Thou shall give me dew;Shall feed my root with Blood,And stir my sap for good?Oh, by Thy Gifts that shame me,Give more lest they condemn me:Good Lord, I ask much of Thee,But most I ask to love Thee;Kind Lord, be mindful of me,Love me, and make me love Thee.