Cursing myself, cursing my Curse
Can I have hurt my dearest?
She whom I would not hurt above all in the world,
I am doomed to harm.
Adam! How often
have I
In anger spat out your name.
Father !
King! You are not worthy of
these!
You gave your children
Scorpions, snakes, stones,
By your thoughtless deed
Condemning us to hurt
Ourselves, our loves, our God.
And yet, in my heart I know
That this anger is yet another scapegoat,
A feeble attempt to hide my own guilt,
Far greater than the Adamite sin,
I have sinned time and time and time again,
Heaping just wrath on myself.
Alone. I stand
condemned
And have no right to blame my ancient Sire.
Foul Curse!
No, I must cry against myself.
Because a mighty Hero has freed me
But I so often pretend
That he has not.
And yet, can I have hurt my dearest?
This is bitter indeed – what do I gain
By playing at slavery?
If by chance, by pretending to have nothing,
I should lose all.
But the Highest King has refused to abandon me,
And does not receive back what he has once given.
And demands only these words:
Mea culpa.
