I'VE been a hopeless sinner, but I understand a saint, Their bend of weary knees and their con- tortions long and faint, And the endless pricks¹ of conscience, like a hundred thousand pins, A real perpetual penance² for imaginary sins.

    I love to wander widely, but I understand a cell, Where you tell and tell your beads³ because you've nothing else to tell, Where the crimson⁴ joy of flesh, with all its wild fantastic tricks, Is forgotten in the blinding glory of the crucifix.

    I cannot speak for others, but my inmost soul is torn With a battle of desires making all my life forlorn. There are moments when I would untread the paths that I have trod. I'm a haunter of the devil, but I hunger after God.