There’s gaps in the floor­boards and dull in their gleam,
There’s warp in the win­dow­panes, in the plaster sag-wear,
No, I can’t see the speck in their eyes for my beam,
But I part my parched lips now to mumble a prayer:

God in his heaven, to whom am I heir?
Have I been passed down the ser­pen­tine dream?
O God in his heaven, did thy son pay my fare?
There’s gaps in the floor­boards and dull in their gleam.

We’re born into slavery and sound-silent scream.
We’re broke on the mill­stone, grade-down to despair,
And our eyes run blood-tears like an iron-tainted stream.
There’s warp in the win­dow­panes, in the plaster sag-wear.

Did the skull-place’s blood­bath ablute and repair?
Did thy firstborn’s obla­tion restore and redeem?
Or does hope yet death-thrash in a heart-hard­ened snare?
No, I can’t see the speck in their eyes for my beam.

And I strive and I soul-gasp to cham­pion thy theme,
And I strain ’gainst the tempting thine hope to for­swear,
Immov­able world-weary weight, thine enemy’s scheme;
So, I part my parched lips now to mumble a prayer:

O heaven most high, in my pain will thou spare
Me and lift me high up on thy winged seraphim,
And steel-fast my soul ’gainst the enemy’s dare,
For I’m weak and I’m wounded and prone to his teem.

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