كَيفَ المَريضُ الَّذي تُحمى عيادَتُهُ

إِنّي عَلَيهِ لَذو خَوفٍ وَإِشفاقِ

How fares the sick man whose visitation I crave

For him I feel such tenderness and care

يُرقى لِيَسكُنَ ما يَلقى وَبي سَقَمٌ

مِن حُبِّهِ لازِمٌ ما إِن لَهُ راقِ

I wish that he find peace from the ills he doth face

And that my steadfast love be his cure and prayer

يا لَيتَ ما بِكَ مِن سُقَمٍ تَحَوَّلَ بي

إِنّي إِلى ذاكَ يا سُؤَلي بِأَشواقِ

Would that whatever sickness you do bear

Be transferred over to me, whom longing makes its lair