1. O Lord of a body, all of it glances,
With depths that have no eyelids,

2. That conceal nothing from You though it be manifest,
Beloved, seas flow through it,

3. When the tumultuous waves surge against it,
And it is folded up like an infant in the cradle,

4. There come to it through sustenance, pearls,
Small things that sparkle, or great,

5. As if, when the onlooker scans it,
It were treasuries of silver, or daggers.