In spite of this I come so near,
In meagre ways I am all to fear,
Mine honour so wry can wrung so high,
Though listen with care my words to fly;
For I am no God here nor there to spire,
Nor am I the Christian nor Muslim aspire,
If not my angst but my sin becomes human,
If not so human then more am I to conman,
Now beseech me here that I cannot spell,
This art I form with religion ought he fell,
So when my God arrives to take this God from me
So shall I know from Him that God in thee
Was ought but gone from hence to far,
Nor my hands so warm all heart to bar,
I am not the God you pray I am to be;
I am the mortal who built the church to be,
Now let me rest for a poor old man is nought,
If you believe me now, then my task is brought.

Category:
Mystical, Poetry, Works
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