Page:Quatrains of Omar Khayyam (tr. Whinfield, 1883).djvu/270

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Sure of Thy grace, for sins why need I fear? How can the pilgrim faint whilst Thou art near? On the last day Thy grace will wash me white, And make my "black record" to disappear.

Think not I dread from out the world to hie. And see my disembodied spirit fly; I tremble not at death, for death is true, 'Tis my ill life that makes me fear to die!

Let us shake off dull reason's incubus, Our tale of days or years cease to discuss, And take our jugs, and plenish them with wine, Or e'er grim potters make their jugs of us!