Poem for a Friday morning

Was sifting through my old Art History ABC entries, where I did an essay on an art history topic for each letter of the alphabet (click the tag to see them if you'd like) and came across a poem by Michelangelo I posted. I thought I'd share it again.

What file's incessant bite
left this old hide so shrunken, frayed away,
my poor sick soul? When is it due, the day
that sloughs it off, and heaven receives you, where
in primal joy and light
you lived, unvexed by the perilous flesh you wear?
Though I change hide and hair
with little life ahead,
no way to change behavior long engrained,
cramping me all the more as years go by.
I'm envious, Love, I swear
(why hide it?) of the dead,
a panicky muddle-head,
my soul in terror of its sensual tie.
Lord, as the last hours fly,
stretch out in mercy your two arms; make me
less what I've been, more what you'd have me be.
Michelangelo, Poem 161 to Vittoria Colonna.