Who is the public for whom I perform?
Who, when I grieve them, am I left hard forlorn?
Who do I write for, alone in my bed?
With whom do I seek council, alone in my head?
Heaven is my public.
The angels critique -
The saints observe my career daily,
When I am obedient or weak.
All the souls of Heaven are my audience, absorbed!
And there at the high center,
My beloved!
My Lord!
So in all my life's progress,
Each morning to touch my foot to stage,
To egress from this world,
Through battles, wars to wage!
I fight against the Devils -
I fight against my sin!
I fight the seductions of this world
That yet my soul might win!
My Lord supplies me armour -
My Lord supplies me hope.
My Lord supplies me ardor -
Of an infinite, unending scope!
So all these days of mercy,
When I'm upon this stage -
Do I give to my Lord freely,
Till I am ripe and grey with age.
