Bequeathed to scion from sire,
thoughts which lament
memories dire
& calls to repent
or burn in everlasting fire.
We ransacked the humble convent
to find only the huddled masses of devotion
who cared not a whit that we came from lands frozen
seeking glory & treasure across the ocean
to plunder naught but baubles of hope.
Saxons pled for their savior regal;
salvation wrought by a rope.
Delivered from evil,
reverent faces
ecstatic in anticipation.
Did they earn His graces
by resisting all temptation?
Nay. The friars had forgotten,
our axes do not a martyr make.
My soul is not cursed nor rotten
though forevermore, shall it ache.

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