Dark are the days; the battle presses hard.
See what weak knees, what furrowed brow and pale
I bring to bear; what lies in me must fail,
My camp encircled and my forces frail.
Guard, Lord, my mind, so often led astray
With thoughts that reason's harlotry betray!
For what seems right unto my mortal eye
So often Your clear precept would deny—
Yet Your word lives, gives life, and cannot lie.
Guard, Lord, my heart, that with the world conspires
To see me seared by vain and rash desires!
Lest in this life and after I should burn,
Take out this cold, dead stone, that in return,
For that which pleases You I warmly yearn.
Guard, Lord, my feet that feel Your way's sharp stones;
My hands, against which earth its thistle hones;
My eyes, grown weak from watching in this night;
My ears from voices rather loud than right;
My tongue from telling tales against Your light.
Send holy angels, Lord, to guard with speed
From unseen foes more numerous indeed,
More deadly than my mind and sense perceive!
Oh, help my unbelief! Let me believe
That of Your strength, O Christ, I may receive!
