Go ahead and tell me of my faults,
You who perfection from exalts,
I believe you not to have the broom
To come and my doorstep to groom,

Don’t come and claim the splinter
From my eye,
When a log of great timber,
Does so in your pupils lie,

I wish not to hear of the words
You believe to preach,
The words you do not of practice two thirds
But wish to teach,

Don’t come here with your empty
Accusations,
Don’t come here with your plenty
Condemnations,

For I know of all my that my heart
Has tinted black,
But I have the resentful part
That you in your words do lack,

My heart is not of ideal
Bled red,
But it knows the things I feel,
The things I’ve done and said,

There are like all
The things I do not preach with pride,
But even though to sin I have befallen,
I have redemption on my side,

So go ahead and tell me of my faults,
You who perfection from so exalts,
But my closet was cleaned long ago,
But of your skeletons you will owe.