Poem by Victoria Colonna

Father of heaven! if by thy mercy's grace
A living branch I am of that true vine
Which spreads o'er all, — and would we did resign
Ourselves entire by faith to its embrace!—
In me much drooping, Lord, thine eye will trace,
Caused by the shade of these rank leaves of mine,
Unless in season due thou dost refine
The humor gross, and quicken its dull pace.
So cleanse me, that, abiding e'er with thee,
I feed me hourly with the heavenly dew,
And with my falling tears refresh the root.
Thou saidst, and thou art truth, thou 'dst with me be:
Then willing come, that I mav bear much fruit,
And worthy of the stock on which it grew.