Subjected to disgraces every day
from those   like me   who claim to follow him                                                
my Saviour’s head   will still not turn away
from injuries inflicted by my sin
There is no garland to redress these wrongs
not even if I write a flawless sonnet
or play like Beiderbecke melodious songs
at Heaven’s gate upon a golden cornet
For when an artist intricately weaves
a chaplet for the king from tender strands
she pictures her own head with laurel leaves
Our offerings are tainted by our hands
This coronet   which I think now adorns
my Saviour’s head   keeps turning into thorns