What sort of wretch am I? Who curses God from where I lie When I want to sing I want to cry But my arid throat’s too dry To utter anything but “What sort of wretch am I?”
There were crows in my dreams Before my father died They became the haunt of me With the stare of their steely eyes I bowed my head and prayed each night Before the Grace above To rid my dreams of the crows And see instead a dove