Dsida Jenő: Húsvéti ének az üres sziklasír mellett

By your tomb with trepidation,
fearfully I man my station,
oh - the charge is great, no doubt,
burns and crushes with its might:
for the skeptics and the doubters,
for your sacred law’s deniers,
empty grave, a ghastly sight.

By the mouth of your open grave
sitting amid sighs that I gave
pondering my wretched life
half-wasted, with sadness rife
woe, — I’m battered by such sorrow,
as in verses of Jacopo
and Saint Bernard call to you.

There is no one quite so vile,
traitor and untrue disciple,
on the devil’s path, treads he
sure of foot, and knowingly:
‘postle nurtured on holy bread,
yet to sinful ways he was led, -
Christ, that guilty soul was me.

All I see in my self’s dark well,
vile curse, detestable spell,
wound-riddled, despicable,
urges uncontrollable,
drowned in drink and gluttonousness,
facing sordid sins, resistless,
endlessly contemptible.

If I knew you’d lend forgiveness,
to your kingdom, grant me access,
I’d bore out mine own two eyes,
lob off my two hands, likewise,
sever my tongue on a knife’s edge,
let my body fall to ravage,
sinful tools that I despise.

My sins are innumerable.
I regret all, I repent all,
and this pain that torments me
bends its arc toward ecstasy.
With my hair ash-covered and torn,
I rise on this cool Easter morn
and your empty grave I see.

Marvel at the clammy, concave
recess carved into a rock cave,
my two arms hang listlessly,
useless they are now to me …
You dole out unbounded mercy,
rise, resurrect, grant clemency
if only I’d let it be.

Nursing the wounds of my old faith,
all day long I sit and I wait.
Suddenly a sacred breeze
wraps my soul in warmth and ease,
from beyond the deep, ashen gates
melodious tune emanates,
string of drops, my tears release.

My Lord is alive once again,
treads his well-worn stride once again,
bathes in April’s vernal ways,
gilded by the sun’s warm rays,
wherever he ambles along,
throngs of birds break out into song,
newly sowed fields sing his praise.

Maidens singing holy gospels,
flower-bearing pure disciples,
Master, I won’t follow thee.
Perchance on a quiet eve,
I’ll set out, and trace your journey,
crawling, prostrate, down on my knee,
teary eyed, ephem’rally.

Caught up in a thornwood’s branches,
pitch dark, crossing vast expanses
parched and famished, I travail,
scaling mountains, I travail,
like a hound who’s wandered off path,
catches the scent of his own death,
still pursues his master’s trail.

Sing the praise of heaven’s story,
palmy, everlasting glory,
meanwhile dragging my earth-bound
body on the dusty ground,
rejoicing that none of them know
how my swelling, how my pains grow,
’til in my own blood I’m drown’d.

Heaven’s doctrine defies knowing:
crawling, bleeding, yet rejoicing,
wallowing in dust and mire
and yet, aiming ever higher …
wear my legs down to the core
yet I know, at Heaven’s door
I will reach you, Christ, my Sire!