Woe betide the unwary
engulfed in worldly pleasures
Accustomed to seeking the material well-being
For if we had been blind
we would have had no sin.

Woe betide the complacent
basking in evanescent earthly delights
Thereby adorning ourselves with a millstone
instead of raiment white as snow
reflecting the effulgence of God's glory

Sound no trumpet before you,
man's praise a hollow reward
what good is giving alms
like the hypocrites do in the streets?

Practice your piety in secret
The grandstand play holds no sway when you die
Be humble and you will be blessed
Be Simple and you will never perish

What a weighty name
I must live up to!
A martyr and a saint
a widow and a mother
back in Roman Times
just as dystopian as our era
when Faith, Hope and Love
are tortured and burned over an iron grating,
then thrown into a red-hot oven,
finally into a cauldron with boiling tar
before bending their necks beneath the sword.
A grievous torture indeed to watch
the suffering of your daughters.
How could anyone
so little and small
like me be worthy of that martyr’s crown?