Antiphon I

Lord, Your sanctuary burns my sallow sin-stained skin its beauty pains my eyes

Your antiphon is too hard to sing it chokes my smoke-filled lungs

Your sacrifice stings my selfish heart

Your gifts are lost in my feeble grip


We, your chosen are lost, addled by our own device.
We cannot bear to take the withered hand, to heal the wounded heart.
Our sickened nobility built on brethren's pain and widow's mite.
We stand with vulgar pride upon the lives of better souls.
To conquer with cruel word and deed ourselves in shallow might.