Neither Babylon's ***** nor Mother Mary
No, not the one who is quite contrary
For in her grows not a garden but a king
But who am I to say that divine thing
Sins, scarlet, red as blood
Turned white as snow, as wool
Yet still remains that poison-seed
Which reminds me and reminds me of my wicked deed
Pure, I am, but not have I always been-
"The devil finds work for idle hands to do"
Neither downtrodden in dirt nor radiant as sun
These tryings, becoming fruitful, turn me to the One

-c.j.