From the Deathbed of a Dying Lover
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My fever soars and sweat pollutes my brow;

The illness proves that I am but a man.

The strength which youth bestowed is gone, and now

I weep as only dying sinners can.

For I am not like you, who loved your Christ;

Instead I made my lust a golden calf.

I worshipped you and canonized our tryst;

I slew my only son on your behalf.

But you, devout and pure and free of sin,

Are surely bound for golden-cobbled streets.

So look and see your lover’s final grin,

For I will not be there with you, my sweet.

When you resign to God’s eternal grace

I hope that you forget my smiling face.

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