Den Mand Er Ikke Stort Bevendt, Som Praler Af Sin Hjerne


Den Mand er ikke stort bevendt, som praler af sin Hjerne;
det er jo kun den skrumpne Nød, som rasler med sin Kjærne.

by Hans Vilhelm Kaalund.

Cavaleren Til Sin Dame

Cavaleren til sin Dame
paa et Bal ,,for de Vandlidte''


Jeg kom herhen for de Vandlidte,
Og jeg gaaer hjem blandt de Brandlidte.

by Hans Christian Andersen.

Elsker Ømt Sin Stær Pauline

Elsker ømt sin Stær Pauline,
Og sin Skjødhund Vilhelmine,
Gjertrud, ak, sin Pavian,
Og sin lille Kat Nanette,
Saa maaskee den smaae Rosette
Dog din Frier elske kan!

by Emil Aarestrup.

Herren Strækker Ud Sin Arm

Herren strækker ud sin Arm,
Smaa vil Han velsigne,
Kommer, Smaa, til Jesu Barm,
Lærer Ham at ligne!
Døb, gienfød dem, Herre from,
Dybt i Livets Kilde!
Aldrig de til Død og Dom
Sig fra Dig forvilde!

by Nicolaj Frederik Severin Grundtvig.

Frydelig Himmel Og Jord

Frydelig Himmel og Jord
Synger i Chor:
Han med den vældige Arm
Styred paa Døden sin Harm!
Første-Født i Dødens Rige,
Han gienfødte os tillige,
Gjorde ved et Almagts-Bliv
Svælget til et Moders-Liv,
Afgrund til et Naadens Dyb!

by Nicolaj Frederik Severin Grundtvig.

Den Trufne Centaur Til Sin Lærling

Dreng med den herlige Bue, som jeg at spænde dig lærte!
Kunstens Opelsken i Dig var mig, som Aldrende, Lyst;
Nu er jeg Olding; min Løn, din Priis, er blandet med Smerte;
Thi hvad du valgte til Maal, var mit dig elskende Bryst.
Viig nu herefter for ingen i Skud-Kunst prøvende Dyst,
At den eeneste Trøst endnu maa qvæge mit Hierte!

by Jens Baggesen.

Behold, The Grave Of A Wicked Man

Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.

There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.
"No flowers for him," he said.
The maid wept:
"Ah, I loved him."
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
"No flowers for him."

Now, this is it --
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?

by Stephen Crane.

Here’s the volume: stain nor blot
Mars a leaf to-day;
Sin and folly, they are not;
Sorrow is away.
Look! Each page is white and clear,
And’t is morning of the year.

Of the days that swiftly run
This will not be mute:
Good or evil said or done,
Sweet or bitter fruit,
What shall be the record, dear,
At the evening of the year?

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

Har Dagen Sanket Al Sin Sorg

Har Dagen sanket al sin Sorg
Og grædt den ud i Dug,
Saa aabner Natten Himlens Borg
Med evigt Tungsinds tavse Sorg.
Og en for en
Og to og to
Gaa fjerne Verd'ners Genier frem
Af Himmeldybets dunkle Gjem.
Og højt over Jordens Lyst og Elende
Med Stjernekjerter højt i Hænde
Skride de langsomt hen over Himlen.
De Fodtrin skifte
Med Sorg i Sinde.
Underligt vifte
For Rummets kolde Vinde
Stjernekjerternes flakkende Flammer.

by Jens Peter Jacobsen.

Romance [min Skat Var Blond. Hendes Øjnes Blik]

Min Skat var blond. Hendes Øjnes Blik
lo frem som Fugle i sommerlun Strand,
og vi var Venner — men naar jeg gik,
hun spotted mig: „Daarlige Mand!"

Saa kom vi af Takt i vor Kærligheds Vals.
Jeg knælede: „Straf mig, ifald du kan!"
Da tog hun mig grædende om min Hals
og kyssed mig: „Daarlige Mand!"

Min unge Skat jeg i Harm forlod
og flakkede fremmed og ene om Land.
Jeg ejed en Skat, som var ung og god.
Hun elsker sin daarlige Mand.

by Sophus Niels Christen Claussen.

Aemilianus Monae, Alexandrian, 628 - 655 A.D.

With words, with countenance, and with manners
I shall build an excellent panoply;
and in this way I shall face evil men
without having any fear or weakness.

They will want to harm me. But of those
who approach me none will know
where my wounds are, my vulnerable parts,
under all the lies that will cover me. --


Boastful words of Aemilianus Monae.
Did he ever build this panoply?
In any case, he did not wear it much.
He died in Sicily, at the age of twenty-seven.

by Constantine P. Cavafy.

Against Evil Company

Why should I join with those in Play,
In whom I've no delight,
Who curse and swear, but never pray,
Who call ill Names, and fight.

I hate to hear a wanton Song,
Their Words offend my Ears:
I should not dare defile my Tongue
With Language such as theirs.

Away from Fools I'll turn my Eyes,
Nor with the Scoffers go;
I would be walking with the Wise,
That wiser I may grow.

From one rude Boy that's us'd to mock
Ten learn the wicked Jest;
One sickly Sheep infects the Flock,
And poysons all the rest.

by Isaac Watts.

Sin and Death, those sisters two,
Two, two,
Sat together while dawned the morning.
Sister, marry! Your house will do,
Do, do,
For me, too, was Death's warning.

Sin was wedded, and Death was pleased,
Pleased, pleased,
Danced about them the day they married;
Night came on, she the bridegroom seized,
Seized, seized,
And away with her carried.

Sin soon wakened alone to weep,
Weep, weep.
Death sat near in the dawn of morning:
Him you love, I love too and keep,
Keep, keep.
He is here, was Death's warning.

by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson.

Sin Eenbaarne Gud Hengivet

Sin Eenbaarne Gud hengivet
Har for Adams faldne Kiøn,
Og for evig skiænket Livet,
Guddoms-Livet i Hans Søn,
Ubegribelig er Naaden,
Glæden mageløs som Gaaden!


Selv Guds Søn har Sig hengivet
Som et Korn i Jorden saa't,
Med Sig Selv Han gav os Livet
I den Nat, Han blev forraadt,
Saa Han vidste Sig at dele,
Troen altid faaer det Hele!


Ordet er hvad Det vil være,
Kiød og Blod og Vin og Brød,
Herren til Gud Faders Ære,
Aand og Støv og Liv og Død,
Og for os paa Naade-Bordet
Evigt Liv er Guddoms-Ordet!

by Nicolaj Frederik Severin Grundtvig.

The faintness of my heart
When strife and evil rose,
The worse and lesser part
Which it for ever chose,
God knows.

The passions that have bound
My soul with chains of earth.
The sorrows that have found
Their home with me since birth.
The dearth

Of all these nobler things
That make existence fair,
The stain of sin that clings
Until we cease to care
For prayer,

All this must I atone:
And though eternal woes
My banished soul alone,
Must bear without repose,
Yet I am not afraid
To know God knows.

by Radclyffe Hall.

Be Sure Sin Will Find You Out

Do you think, oh shrewd deceiver,
Because your well-laid plan,
For the death of a fellow-being,
Or the wreck of a fellow-man,
Was plotted alone at midnight,
When not a soul was about,
And carried out in secret,
That it will not find you out?

You have given it breath and being,
You have given it wings to fly;
It has gone forth a black-winged raven
To follow you 'till you die.
Like Poe's, it will knock on your chamber door,
It will haunt you the earth about,
It will trouble your peace at the midnight hour.
Be sure it will find you out.

by Martha Lavinia Hoffman.

Hun Er, Til Trods Sin Røde Lille Mund

Hun er, til Trods sin røde lille Mund,
et loddent Udyr, Hoppe, Æsel, Hund,
der vifter saa fripostig med sin Hale
og fører ganske uforblommet Tale.

Hun er et Hexeridt, en Narredans,
men fin og ung som Junis grønne Dale;
hun raaber: „Ryk tre Haar ud af min Svans!
og strax forvandles de til Nattergale."

Og hendes Læbe er saa rød, som sagt,
men trind og hvid den latterfyldte Strube,
at Blodet svulmer i min Hjærtegrube.

Hun svøber mig i Hovedhaarets Pragt
og hvisker: „Mester for den nye Skole,
se, jeg er Asenindens unge Fole."

by Sophus Niels Christen Claussen.

En Ung Piges Klage

Ja Stjernerne var Skyld deri,
Den fjerne lyse Hær,
Thi da jeg dem betragted,
Han kom mig sagte nær.

Og paa min Læbe trykked han
Et Kys ved Stjerneglands,
Da jeg mig vilde værge,
Da var alt Kysset hans.

En anden Gang i Maaneskin
Han stod bag Havens Træer,
Og da jeg mindst det vented,
Han kom mig atter nær.

Og atter da han kyssed mig,
Og tog mig i sin Arm,
Og da jeg vilde vredes,
Da loe han af min Harm.

Naar Maanelys og Stjerneglands
Med Amor er i Pagt,
Hvor kan en stakkels Pige
Da modstaae Elskovs Magt.

by Johannes Carsten Hauch.

Vor Frelser Frit Sin Fiende

Vor Frelser frit sin Fiende
Tør under Øine gaae,
Han veed, han ham skal binde,
Og evig Seier faae!


Her er han, som vil løse
Hver syndebundet Træl!
Her er han, som vil øse
Trøst i hver bange Sjæl!


Hans Indtog synes ringe,
Et Asen er hans Hest,
Dog skal han Sion bringe
En evig Frydefest!


Her er han, Sions Daatter!
Som dig gav Dronning-Navn,
Som Drotten over Drotter,
Han tager dig i Favn!


Her er han, som vil bære
En Torne-Krands for dig,
Og skiænker dig med Ære
Guld-Kronen klar hos sig!

by Nicolaj Frederik Severin Grundtvig.

A Lover To His Mistress

Oh make not light of love, my lady dear,
For, from that sweetest source doth ever flow
All that is likest heaven on earth below.
Ill it beseems who worthiest love appear,
To scoff at their own worship;—if to you
All that a serving soul, tender and true,
Can bring of best and holiest offering,
Seems but a slight and unregarded thing—
Then are you, with your grace and loveliness,
A wicked phantom, with an evil spell,
Luring warm human hearts to a cold hell,
Where in a barren, blighted emptiness,
Self-love and vanity together dwell;
Companions curst, cruel, and comfortless.

by Frances Anne Kemble.

In law an infant, and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd;
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Women his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;
Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin:
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.

by George Gordon Byron.

Livet Med Sin Brude-Skare

Livet med sin Brude-Skare
Drager ind ad Salems Bye.
Luften syntes sød, som Manna,
Af hans Følges Hosianna.
Palmer gik med hine klare
Jubel-Toner op i Skye.
Livet med &c.


Tænk engang, og dog maae tage
Mod den elsktes frekke Nej!
Derfor Kind og Øje falmer
Mit iblant de søde Psalmer;
Og maae øse Taare-Lage
Paa den glade Højtids Vej.
Tænk engang &c.


Fyrgetive Aar derefter
Salem fik en anden Giæst,
Ørnen med de glubske Unger,
Kriig og Oprør, Pest og Hunger,
Sig ved dette Aadsel hæfter,
Just til samme Højtids Fæst.
Fyrgetive Aar &c.

by Hans Adolph Brorson.

Sonet [den Svend, Som Tabet Af Sin Elskte Frister]

Den Svend, som Tabet af sin Elskte frister,
Vildfremmed vanker om blandt Jordens Hytter,
Med Haab han efter Kirkeklokken lytter,
Som lover ham igjen, hvad her han mister.

Men neppe han med en Usalig bytter,
Hvis Hjerte stedse koldt for Elskov brister,
Som sig uelsket gjennem Livet lister,
Hans Armod kun mod Tabet ham beskytter.

Til Livets Gaade reent han savner Nøglen,
Hver Livets Blomst i Hjertets Vinter fryser,
Han gaaer omkring med underlige Fagter.

Ræd, Spøgelser han seer, naar Solen lyser,
Modløs og syg, foragtet han foragter
Det skjønne Liv, som tom og ussel Gøglen.

by Poul Martin Moller.

Custom in sin.

Let the wild leopards of the wood
Put off the spots that nature gives,
Then may the wicked turn to God,
And change their tempers and their lives.

As well might Ethiopian slaves
Wash out the darkness of their skin,
The deed as well might leave their graves,
As old transgressors cease to sin.

Where vice has held its empire long,
'Twill not endure the least control;
None but a power divinely strong
Can turn the current of the soul.

Great God! I own thy power divine
That works to change this heart of mine;
I would be formed anew, and bless
The wonders of creating grace.

by Isaac Watts.

Evil itself may be but good disguised,
As many a virtue now was once a vice,
Or held to be such by the moralists;
Or as even in the eyes of foreigners
Our virtues may be vices, theirs to us
As vicious too. We make us new laws still,
And hold that finable and barred to-day
That was but yesterday allowable.
Our neighbours haply no such laws enact,
And privilege what we make punitive.
So right and wrong are still conditional,
And there's no absolute morality
In all the world; for conscience herself is
Full oft but Custom's creature, whom he keeps,
Who sees with him, and hears with him, and acts
As by his power of attorney still.

by Robert Crawford.

O Wondrous Dreamer, With Thy Power Divine,

O Wondrous dreamer, with thy power divine,
How all our pilgrim-life thy dream hath told
Our load of sin, our hopes, our doubts so cold,
The fearful battle with the foe malign;
And Beulah's beauteous land, where none repine
We long to see ; we dare with joy ' be bold,'
While we with thee in living faith behold
The New Jerusalem on high to shine.
When, as thy gaze beyond the gates did pass,
Which open'd wide to let thy pilgrims in,
And thou didst feast thine eyes, oft filled with tears,
Well may we feel that thou could'st wish, alas !
That thou had'st done with this world's care and sin,
To rest amid that throng for endless years.

by John Bunyan.

Good thoughts, 'tis said, are no more than good dreams
Save they be into action put, and that
On opportunity depends. Alas!
If place and power cohered, what good were done
Which else, a babe still-born, has no way here,
But in the womb of good intention fails,
The heart's abortion! Ay, and thuswise too,
Full many a foul intent in that it has
No power or place of action is debarred
A monstrous birth. So nature haply does
In some mysterious way we do not know
Still hold the balance 'tween the good and ill
Of thought in action here, and we become
(In spite of our own selves full oft indeed)
Dispensers of a higher equity
Than the bare law of reason would allow.

by Robert Crawford.

Is It A Sin, To Wish That I May Meet Thee

Is it a sin, to wish that I may meet thee
In that dim world whither our spirits stray,
When sleep and darkness follow life and day?
Is it a sin, that there my voice should greet thee
With all that love that I must die concealing?
Will my tear-laden eyes sin in revealing
The agony that preys upon my soul?
Is't not enough through the long, loathsome day,
To hold each look and word in stern control?
May I not wish the staring sunlight gone,
Day and its thousand torturing moments done,
And prying sights and sounds of men away?
O still and silent Night! when all things sleep,
Locked in thy swarthy breast my secret keep:
Come, with thy visioned hopes and blessings now!
I dream the only happiness I know.

by Frances Anne Kemble.

The Unpardonable Sin

I do not cry, beloved, neither curse.
Silence and strength, these two at least are good.
He gave me sun and start and aught He could,
But not a woman's love; for that is hers.

He sealed her heart from sage and questioner --
Yea, with seven seals, as he has sealed the grave.
And if she give it to a drunken slave,
The Day of Judgment shall not challenge her.

Only this much: if one, deserving well,
Touching your thin young hands and making suit,
Feel not himself a crawling thing, a brute,
Buried and bricked in a forgotten hell;

Prophet and poet be he over sod,
Prince among angels in the highest place,
God help me, I will smite him on the face,
Before the glory of the face of God.

by Gilbert Keith Chesterton.

Balder Til Sin Fader

Du, som mig endnu din Dør oplader,
Naar forfulgt af Nid og Spot og Svig,
Og af Hoben, som vil steene mig,
Vildt jeg flygter giennem Livets Gader,
En udsluppen Ulivsfange lig -

Du, som end, mens hun og alt mig hader,
Mens hvert andet Hierte lukker sig,
Med hvert Øre for mit Klageskrig,
Venlig smiler til mig, hulde Fader!

Du, som evig uforanderlig
Trods min Elsktes Afsky, elsker mig,
Hør, o Du, hvis Godhed jeg tilbeder,
Balders Hiertes eene sidste Bøn:

Mens den Grumme Baalet ham bereder -
Naar er tændt dets Birk og Gran og Røn,
Naar i Flammen, Døden eene slukker,
Hendes Navn for sidste Gang han sukker,
Hvisk det Ord, som Naadens Dør oplukker
Hisset, tyst i Øret til din Søn!

by Jens Baggesen.

The Lord Is My Shepherd

The Lord is my Shepherd, no want shall I know;
I feed in green pastures, safe folded I rest;
He leadeth my soul where the still waters flow,
Restores me when wand’ring, redeems when oppressed.

Through valley and shadow of death though I stray,
Since Thou art my Guardian, no evil I fear;
Thy rod shall defend me, Thy staff be my stay;
No harm can befall, with my Comforter near.

In midst of affliction my table is spread;
With blessings unmeasured my cup runneth o’er;
With perfume and oil Thou anointest my head;
O what shall I ask of Thy providence more?

Let goodness and mercy, my bountiful God,
Still follow my steps till I meet Thee above;
I seek, by the path which my forefathers trod,
Through land of their sojourn, Thy Kingdom of love.

by James Montgomery.

The Visible, The Untrue

Yes, I being
the terrible puppet of my dreams, shall
lavish this on you-
the dense mine of the orchid, split in two.
And the fingernails that cinch such
environs?
And what about the staunch neighbor tabulations,
with all their zest for doom?

I'm wearing badges
that cancel all your kindness. Forthright
I watch the silver Zeppelin
destroy the sky. To
stir your confidence?
To rouse what sanctions-?

The silver strophe… the canto
bright with myth… Such
distances leap landward without
evil smile. And, as for me….

The window weight throbs in its blind
partition. To extinguish what I have of faith.
Yes, light. And it is always
always, always the eternal rainbow
And it is always the day, the farewell day unkind.

by Harold Hart Crane.

The Daughter Of Herodias

Matthew xiv 6-11

Vain, sinful art! who first did fit
Thy lewd loathed motions unto sounds,
And made grave music like wild wit
Err in loose airs beyond her bounds?

What fires hath he heaped on his head?
Since to his sins (as needs it must,)
His art adds still (though he be dead,)
New fresh accounts of blood and lust.

Leave then young sorceress; the ice
Will those coy spirits cast asleep,
Which teach thee now to please his eyes
Who doth thy loathsome mother keep.

But thou hast pleased so well, he swears,
And gratifies thy sin with vows:
His shameless lust in public wears,
And to thy soft arts strongly bows.

Skilful enchantress and true bred!
Who out of evil can bring forth good?
Thy mother's nets in thee were spread,
She tempts to incest, thou to blood.

by Henry Vaughan.

The inward witness to Christianity.

1 Jn. 5:10.

Questions and doubts be heard no more,
Let Christ and joy be all our theme;
His Spirit seals his gospel sure,
To every soul that trusts in him.

Jesus, thy witness speaks within;
The mercy which thy words reveal
Refines the heart from sense and sin,
And stamps its own celestial seal.

'Tis God's inimitable hand
That molds and forms the heart anew;
Blasphemers can no more withstand,
But bow, and own thy doctrine true.

The guilty wretch that trusts thy blood
Finds peace and pardon at the cross;
The sinful soul, averse to God,
Believes and loves his Maker's laws.

Learning and wit may cease their strife,
When miracles with glory shine;
The voice that calls the dead to life
Must be almighty and divine.

by Isaac Watts.

Anger At War, When It Lasted Too Long (1764)

I loathe with all my heart the first of men who slew
A human fellow-being when the earth was new.
My spirit shrinks from him who for primeval raids
Made sharp the world's first arrow, honed the first of blades.
For sure that soul rose up from Hades black as sin
That first conceived the thought by murdering to win.
He was by Furies nurtured who with savage lust
First ground gunpowder, first a bullet cast.
He waged his war against all human kind and won,
Oh, he has maimed all Nature with his baneful gun.
He who was first to hone with evil toil the steel
To hold against his brother's throat with barbarous zeal.
Thou scourge, War, for the world! which the Almighty shook
When in his willful blindness Man the Good forsook;
Masked lunacy, thy foot is rough and weighs like lead,
And where it treads, a sea of blood is shed!

by Anna Louisa Karsch.

Should it occasion much surprise
That criminals should deal in blame,
As all of us, and recognise
The full depth of another's shame.
The burglar blames the bigamist
As something partially insane,
And Bluebeards equally insist
That burglars are a sinful bane.

And, getting further up the scale,
To normal men, like you and I,
The rule is never known to fail,
While egotism throned on high,
Sets cunning traps for you and me,
Blind with the illusion of our worth,
To ape the smirking Pharisee,
And see sin stalking o'er the earth.

In a community of saints,
Where all sins save fault-finding die,
One still might look for grave complaints
Concerning haloes worn awry.
But as this sinful earth is trod,
He who, of Jezebel or Cain,
Says, 'There, but for the grace of God,
Go I,' is the most nearly sane.

by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis.

Bowed With A Sense Of Sin

Bowed with a sense of sin, I faint
Beneath the complicated load;
Father, attend my deep complaint,
I am Thy creature, Thou my God.

Though I have broke Thy righteous law,
Yet with me let Thy Spirit stay;
Thyself from me do not withdraw,
Nor take my spark of hope away.

Mercy unlimited is Thine;
God of the penitent Thou art;
The saving power of blood divine
Shall ease the anguish of my heart.

Then let not sin my ruin be,
Gives me in Thee my rest to find:
Jesus, the sick have need of Thee,-
Thou great Physician of mankind.

In my salvation, Lord, display
The triumphs of abounding grace;
Tell me my guilt is done away,
And turn my mourning into praise.

Then shall I add my feeble song
To theirs who chant Thy praise on high,
And spread with an immortal tongue
Thy glory through the echoing sky.

by Augustus Montague Toplady.

Man Sig Forlover, Bytter Sin Ring

Man sig forlover, bytter sin Ring,
For at fatte stadige Tanker.
Naar man er fri, man drives omkring,
Men forlovet kaster man Anker.
Frihedens Hav er kun Længsel og Savn,
Truer med Død og tusinde Farer;
Men i den stille, rolige Havn
Der er man sikker nok for Corsarer.

Man sig forlover, sødeste Ven!
Som en Plads man ellers manquerer:
Naar man faaer Tid, saa tager man den,
Indtil da man den conserverer.
Ellers Enhver kan snappe den bort,
Og man maa flau tilbage sig trække.
Altsaa, for ei at komme tilkort,
Bør man den snildt itide belægge.

Man sig forlover, syvende sidst,
Som man Alt proberer og prøver.
Ægteskab er en Kunst, det er vist,
Derfor først man i Kunsten sig øver.
Siig mig, min Ven, siig, er det ei sandt,
Ingen sig strax af Mesterskab roser?
Hver en Forlovet er Dilettant,
Manden og Konen er Virtuoser.

by Johan Ludvig Heiberg.

Hver Paa Jorden Har Sin Skik

„Hver paa Jorden har sin Skik,"
Gamle Vessel siger;
jeg et par af Skjebnen fik:
elskte Viin og Piger !
I, som kjende Glædens Værd,
siger selv, om ikke
mine to de bedste er
mellem alle Skikke ?

Glut ! du faaer en anden Gang
Viser dig til Ære,
Fader Evan denne Gang
helliget skal være.
Aldrig synger jeg med Held,
naar han mig ei lærer,
naar i Hjernens Citadel
han ei kommanderer.

Derfor, som jeg drikker til,
jeg bestandig synger;
naar jeg ædru digte vil,
mat sig Strophen slynger;
men til Geistens Medicin
flux Man seer mig gribe,
og saasnart jeg faaer lidt Viin,
kappes jeg med Wibe.

Seer jeg Manden med sin Lee
ned til mig at komme,
seer jeg først til Flaskerne,
og er' de da tomme,
tømmer jeg det sidste Glas,
det mod Døren slænger:
Død ! din Skaal ! du kom tilpas,
hvad skal jeg her længer ?

by Knud Lyne Rahbek.

Physician of my sin-sick soul,
To thee I bring my case;
My raging malady control,
And heal me by thy grace.

Pity the anguish I endure,
See how I mourn and pine;
For never can I hope a cure
From any hand but thine.

I would disclose my whole complaint,
But where shall I begin?
No words of mine can fully paint
That worst distemper, sin.

It lies not in a single part,
But through my frame is spread;
A burning fever in my heart,
A palsy in my head.

It makes me deaf, and dumb, and blind,
And impotent and lame;
And overclouds, and fills my mind,
With folly, fear, and shame.

A thousand evil thoughts intrude
Tumultuous in my breast;
Which indispose me for my food,
And rob me of my rest.

Lord I am sick, regard my cry,
And set my spirit free;
Say, canst thou let a sinner die,
Who longs to live to thee?

by John Newton.