Bequeathed to scion from sire,
thoughts which lament
memories dire
and 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 and 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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