To be condemned is ridicule;
In act of sin, one is shamed.
The one who shames believes himself to be not a sinner,
Yet, mercy does not speak to him.
In ignominy, my heart still feels,
For one who has made me with child,
Has yet to show his face.
It is not that I am without knowing,
To why he has not come forth;
Shame betokened him,
Far greater than I, he has more.
For the sinner can learn to be a saint,
But the saint who has sinned is lost.
I do not have fortune to chastise;
Not as the pious can do.
But in tragedy there is resilience,
For the condemning saint,
Have not given chance to replenished hope.
I am bound to one,
One who bore as fruit;
My gem; without stain,
No longer can my heart be unpleased.
As I made love, I become love,
And I will have left knowing,
My love has made me far better off as a sinner than a saint.
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