If I exchanged a rose for each mistake,

A harvest of eight and thirty acres would take,

Causing terror trembling in hands and feet,

Never to be forgotten or forgiven,

Pierced I am with remorse,

As I reap red roses in,

The thorns are all wet

With beads of scarlet reds,

Petals full of pearls of tears,

And the grief of mourning dew,

Each cut a new callus brings,

More salt to bathe the sores,

The scorching summer sun beats upon my skin,

Reaping the harvest I have sown.