A hand upon my back
Does push, beyond my pace,
Rare thoughts to mind, and race
My soul; body the track.

From whence does force conjure
Such rude audacity
To ***** and **** at me
With sprigs sharp, long, nasty?

These procrastinations
Do haunt my mortal life,
Like fresh lacerations
From madman wielding knife.

Face pale and drawn, eye's dull,
I give it up and lean
Into that blade in hand
Of god who's eyes do glean,
with thirst and reprimand.