If the stars are astray, the heavens are Thine, not mine. Why should I fret about the world? The world is Thine, not mine.

If Thy world is cold, devoid of the warmth of passion; whose fault is it, my Lord? That world is Thine, not mine.

How dared he defy Thee, at the dawn of life? It was he who was Thy confidant; it is Thy secret, not mine.

The apostle is Thine, and Gabriel, and so is the Holy Word, but whose life does the Holy Word concern? Is it Thine or mine?

Man is the star that brightens Thy lonely, desolate world; will the eclipse of this star be a loss of Thine or mine?

All potent wine is emptied of Thy cask; art Thou, indeed, a Cup’s bearer, may I ask? Thou gavest me a drop from an ocean; Art Thou a miser in a Nourisher’s mask?