The Measure of the vale

Too frail the scale to reckon virtue's weight

Within my vale, where conscience wanes to dust

He seldom grants the heart a cleansing state,

Nor crowns with grace the lips that feign their trust.

They count their prayers as merchants count their gold,

Their alms are cast to purchase mortal praise

In robes of piety their pride is rolled,

While hollow hearts ignite no sacred blaze.

Their tongues recite what souls have never known,

Their feasts outshine the hunger of the poor

Each mask is polished, every conscience flown,

Yet Heaven bars its everlasting door.

O Lord, restore the truth they cast aside

Let humble hearts, not garments, win Thy sight.

For faith resides where mercy shall abide,

And one pure soul outweighs a thousand rites.