Paul Verlaine: "O My God, You Have Wounded Me With Love"
Introduction
Even a cursed poet can write a holy poem. Paul Verlaine (1844-1896) was such a poet. Though much of his life was spent in violence, debauchery, alcoholism, and addiction, he had a brief time when he experienced a return to the faith, while in prison for shooting his lover in the wrist (deemed by the courts "attempted murder"). Most of the poems from this time were published in his 1880 collection Sagesse (Wisdom). The following poem is one such poem, from the time when Verlaine had "prostrated before the long-unknown Altar...adores the All-Good and invokes the Almighty, sworn son of the Church, the last in merits, but full of good will" (Preface to Sagesse). The poem is made of tercets in which lines 1 and 3 are identical, and line 2 unique. Other than the identical rhymes of lines 1 and 3 of each tercet, no rhyme scheme is involved. My translation aims at accuracy of meaning rather than any attempt to replicate French rhythm or syllable count, though I tend to try to word things with some poetic feeling.
O My God, You Have Wounded Me With Love
Paul Verlaine
(1844-1896)
O my
God, You have wounded me with love
And the wound is trembling
still,
O my God, You have wounded me with love.
O my God, Your fear has struck me
And the burn is still
thundering there,
O my God, Your fear has struck me.
O my God, I’ve known all is vile
And Your glory has been
placed in me,
O my God, I’ve known all is vile.
Drown my soul in the waves of Your Wine,
Melt my life in the
Bread of Your table,
Drown my soul in the waves of Your Wine.
Here is my blood which I have not poured out,
Here is my
flesh unworthy of suffering,
Here is my blood which I have not
poured out.
Here is my forehead which I could but blush,
For the stool of
Your adorable feet,
Here is my forehead which I could but blush.
Here are my hands which have not labored,
For the burning
coals and rare incense,
Here are my hands which have not
labored.
Here is my heart which has but battled in vain,
To beat in the
brambles of Calvary,
Here is my heart which has but battled in
vain.
Here are my feet, frivolous travelers,
To run to the cry of
Your grace,
Here are my feet, frivolous travelers.
Here is my voice, noise sullen and lying,
For the reproaches
of Penitence,
Here is my voice, noise sullen and lying.
Here are my eyes, lamps of error,
To be extinguished by the
tears of prayer,
Here are my eyes, lamps of error.
Alas! You, God of offering and pardon,
Such is the weight of
my ingratitude,
Alas! You, God of offering and pardon,
God of terror and God of holiness,
Alas! this black abyss of
my crime,
God of terror and God of holiness,
You, God of peace, of joy, and of bliss,
All my fears, all of
my ignorances,
You, God of peace, of joy, and of bliss,
You know all of that, all of that,
And that I am poorer than
anyone,
You know all of that, all of that,
But what I have, my God, I give You.
Source: Paul Verlaine, Œuvres Poétiques Complètes, ed. Y.-G. Le Dantec and Jacques Borel (Paris: Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 1962), 264-266.
Translation ©2025 Brandon P. Otto. Licensed via CC BY-NC. Feel free to redistribute non-commercially, as long as credit is given to the translator.
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