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.