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Howbeit strong I seem to be,

I have sorrow inside and ask for forgiveness.

You, lady of an immaculate word

and I have misused your favour.

So I ask myself who am I?

Once a hunter a fiance of fear now,

I may not turn and look up to your face after all,

it is not for the first time when I deceived a tenderness

and I have not said the last word

He emerged from the night, covered with the cloak,

with and exhausted horse and faraway expression.

How shall he adress, ask for a shelter?

Why was he carried with the wind straight hither?

I have flowers in my arms

and I hardly pull my legs in irons through the soil.

a crown of thorns on my head

And a fruit of life of my blood is laying under my heart,

heavier than a stone.

It's your sin that lead my ways astray in the rocky paths

The irons, the irons are your emotions.

I shed my blood, the blood of your blood

and the blood of my blood.

May it become poison and you drink water with this blood.