Stroke of woe, my bitter complaint, 
Contemptuous towards these pangs of Sin,
For I am wicked, 
Shackled so I’m judged; 
Still weak-kneed to be righteous,
Mine affliction confused
With these cold hands I wish to clasp
Kneading the virtue of my Right,
With the blasphemy of my Left,
Weighted by His omnipresence, 
His appointment to have me tried,
Beneath His shadowed Light so brilliant 
I succumb with fear before His eye, 
As my heart goes soft, 
This deserved pain of love,
The agony of fools,
For I know not what Man I am,
For I have fear that comes on me, 
Fear of what Man I might have become.