Tearing away the veils I wove
To hide my foulness from my love,
And leaving my transgressions bare
To the whole heaven's clear, cold air—
When all the angels weep to see
The branded, outcast soul of me,
One saint at least will hide her face—
She will not look at my disgrace.
"At least, O God, O God Most High,
He loved me truly!" she will cry,