The rising white of a blister on my hand
is my blood guilt, my token from the fall—
this and the damned weeds that curse the land
with stains from our black revolt—our cabal
with the snake against heaven’s highest king.
Now everything is taken by the thorn
and my wife, as cursed as I, feels her sting
as she labors to bring forth our firstborn—
the first life to rise from among the dead.
With life can our rebellion be undone?
Can he, my son, forestall what lies ahead?
I hear Him weeping, “Adam, my son, my son,
through sweat and strain you will buy your bread
and Eve’s seed will crush the venomed head.”

Hymn based on this poem.