A word, some sounds, in many minds still dwell
That reaches every watchful angel's ear
Not weeping nor morning can sadness quell
Nor any anger that saints would fear.
This word, for all must one day be spoken
Even our love will soon unwillingly yield.
For I must leave, I don't want to see you broken
Lying on altar named Love, by a knife I wield.
So if you are to stay your true fair self
And stay simply shielded from love's sharp sting
A task there is, must be done by myself.
I must leave you only with these small things.
This blessed word of such sweet pained sorrow
Erased only by promise of morrow.
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