Forgive, O Lord, the men who walk With sodden memories, Old men who rage in padded cells -- Be tolerant of these. Forgive their greed, their selfishness, You know their weakness well -- Forgive the slayer cringing there Within his self-made hell. Their forbears boasted of the kill, While maddened drumbeats spoke, The blood of killers still is theirs -- They wear the killer's yoke. Forgive the lust of Magdalenes, The weight of their desire, For thou who art the God of light Must know the force of fire. Forgive the mongrel horde that pay For passion's sordid plot, And pity us, the smug content Outsiders who do not. |