He who is already dead,
Fears no more death;
He who has got it all,
Bows to no man’s wealth.
To nothing this world gives
Do I want to cling,
That I may always ask,
‘Death, where is your sting?!’

Not on these poor riches
Should my life depend,
Lest with the last flight of it
Soon comes my poor end!
Not in vain consolations
Should my worth be found,
Lest I be a big fool
Tilling on sandy ground!

To spend and be spent
Only in what matters most,
Is what my soul desires
For its one and only boast.
He who the Son sets free,
Is ever free indeed;
And he needs nothing more
Than he should ever need.