Tomorrow

^{translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow}

Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care

   Thou did’st seek after me, that Thou did’st wait

   Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate,

And pass the gloomy nights of winter there?

Oh, strange delusion, that I did not greet

   Thy blest approach, and oh, to heaven how lost

   If my ingratitude’s unkindly frost

Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet.

How oft my guardian angel gently cried,

   “Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see

   How He persists to knock and wait for thee!”

      And oh, how often to that Voice of sorrow,

“Tomorrow we will open,” I replied,

   And when the morrow came I answered still “Tomorrow.”