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Villon

by
THEY threw me from the gates: my matted hair
Was dank with dungeon wetness; my spent frame
O¡¯erlaid with marish agues: everywhere
Tortured by leaping pangs of frost and flame 
So hideous was I that even Lazarus there 5
In noisome rags arrayed and leprous shame 
Beside me set had seemed full sweet and fair 
And looked on me with loathing.
But one came Who laid a cloak on me and brought me in Tenderly to an hostel quiet and clean; 10 Used me with healing hands for all my needs.
The mortal stain of my reputed sin My state despised and my defil¨¨d weeds He hath put by as though they had not been.

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