You are putting me on trial; O love, you know my weakness, yet you go on doing so.
You are becoming the interpreter of the enemy’s secret; you implant mistaken thoughts in his heart.
You are setting fire to the thicket, and at the same time uttering complaints.
It may be thought that you have been cruelly wronged, you are making uproar and complaint like the weak.
You are the sun—who will oppress you? You do whatever you desire from on high.
You make us envious of one another; you make our quarreling into a fine spectacle.
To the gnostics you give wine as cash-in-hand; the ascetics you make drunk with tomorrow.
You give sorrow to the death-meditating bird; the bolbols you make drunk and singing.
You make the raven desirous of dung; your parrot you make sugar-cracking.
The one you draw into mine and mountain, the other you set face to the sea.
You lead us to happiness by way of suffering, or else you recompense our slip.
In this sea all is profit and justice; you dispense all beneficence and kindness.
This is the head of the subtlety; you speak its end, though you make us be without foot and head.
