Villon

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 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; Used me with healing hands for all my needs. The mortal stain of my reputed sin, My state despised, and my defilèd weeds, He hath put by as though they had not been.