Wasn't I who told you the manner
of sitting up in presence of promise
Weren't you who told me absolute
words of comfort and convenience

We were in a chapter of lust
Where our fingers were reading
And we both were blind must

weren't you standing beside me
asking about the seeds and their sort
Wasn't I who told  you crop of obedience
Grows in natural liberty

No where no one would fancy a year
of seven months and a day
Of uncertainty and fear
And a sun less than a ray

Wasn't I a villager
Of misery and rebellion
Weren't  you my Lord threaded
In darkest night a way

Now all misery adapted
In mother-hood and rebellion is
Sewing garments for orphans