What does it grieve you, for the words I’ve said?
They’re but warm breath that should not leave a stain—
‘Tis not their worth that bitter tears be shed,
But for the hurt that gives my heart such shame;
Not shame for words, but that your heart does grieve;
Grief not for speech, but what you feared they meant—
Ashamed, I see stained sorrow on your sleeve,
And grieve now too, in heartfelt recompense.
Tears that do sting—but not my woeful eyes—
Nay, biting tears that scour my heart and soul;
A pain as if a thousand jagged knives
Did cleave my flesh unto the very bone.
I beg forgiveness, hence on bended knee—
That words did wound—now here a salve should be.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.