Crimson fields of little pain,
Ye rose of God, that ran in vain.
It suffers now in pit of flame,
It dreams high for one to blame.
To find a closer blame in time,
To discover too late thy lime.
In flaming pits, forgot, thy love,
To see never a cooing dove.
Twas now the wilted rose sees in pain,
The small rose of God, ran in vain.