Элегический стих
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Everyone is blessed who lives an ethereal life, not stained
The image is great in itself with the abomination of uncleanness.
Occasionally, only unwillingly, we are submissive to the thoughts of heaven,
More often we resist them, plunging our minds into darkness.
If I was born out of flow, why am I immortal?
Did you liken me? If my spirit is from heaven,
Why are You, Christ, patient with me, covered with dirt?
Old age has appeared: alas, my joints are weak.
The flesh will either openly rebel, or it will attack from ambush.
It’s worse when an unclean priest makes a sacrifice.
By the great power of God, I conjure you, O flesh:
Subdue your greed on this dark day of wickedness.
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