When working words and rhymes to ruin fall
And I with burning eyes so weary cry
To that High King, who wrought this world and all
Who dwell within, asking why my art must die,
Why possess I flames that from passion grow
If they but consume me until I am exhaust’d
To ashes that flurry like sheets of falling snow
On every passage that came to naught but loss,
Then I wonder why I for so long fought
To build Him up with staves of steely song
So man may see what they have always sought:
My God, who made my heart, yet not hands, strong.  
If you are cruel as all of this
Perhaps is best to burn in the abyss.