Near monologue — Polyeucte

Baptismal waters yet bedew thy brow; The grace that once was mine, that grace hast thou. No worldly thought has checked the flow, no guilty act has stained; Thy wings are strong, while mine are weak; thy love is fresh, ungeigned,-- To these, thy heights, I cannot soar, held down by sense and sin, How can I storm the citadel?--the traitor lurks within! Forsake me not, my God! Thy spirit pour! Oh, make me true to Him whom I adore! With Thee I rise,--the flesh, the world, defy, Thou, who hast died for me, for Thee I die! Yes, I will go! With heaven-born zeal I burn, I will be free,--all Satan's lures I spurn; Death, torture, outrage, these will I embrace, To nerve my heart and arm, Heaven grant me grace!