Years ago I thought I could
Teach you
Despite my sloven self

But what could I?

Teaching is what poor men do
And I am no man

Like the one on the cross
The one in the doorway
The one who

The
One
Who…makes us clean

It is His voice I hear in the obscure words of bards and oracles
Who will
Remember either Nero or Vespasian

I lift my eyes to You, oh Rock my salvation

I fear all my edges are
Yet incompletely stained.