What does it grieve you for what I have said;
Words are but words, and can yet be reclaimed-
‘Tis not the worth that precious tears be shed
O’er utterance here that leads me to this shame;
Shame not for words, but that your heart does grieve;
Grief not for words, but what you felt they meant;
Shame but to see stained droplets on your sleeve,
Grief now for me to haste my recompense.
Tears that do sting, but not my woeful eyes;
Nay, bitter tears that score 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 hurt; now here a salve should be.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.