The wounds that glow like rubies in the night,
That cast a lurid glare upon the night,
Those mystic wounds in number like the senses.
Four horrid wounds upon the hands and feet,
One on the side, thus making five in all,
Just as the senses, making five in all.
And in the endless night within my being
I hear the moaning and the supplications.
“Oh, tear me from my cross,” entreats the Christ,
“For I am Joy, thy God, the son of Life.