Death-Bed Reflections of Michelangelo

Not that my hand could make of stubborn stone
Whate'er of Gods the shaping thought conceives ;
Not that my skill by pictured lines hath shown
All terrors that the guilty soul believes ;
Not that my art, by blended light and shade,
Express'd the world as it was newly made ;
Not that my verse profoundest truth could teach,
In the soft accents of the lover's speech ;
Not that I rear'd a temple for mankind,
To meet and pray in, borne by every wind —
Affords me peace : — I count my gain but loss.
For that vast love, that hangs upon the Cross.