Fear fills the heart of man,
And though he does what he can,
To quell such trepidation,
To send worry upon vacations,
To silence doubt,
To make his dread rout,
Still his heart quakes,
At night he lays awake,
Thoughts race in his mind,
And he chokes upon the rind,
Of his own mental fabrication,
Oh woe is he for trepidation,
Tis not fear he dreads,
Or that his body might dry be bled,
Or soul agony over hardship or woe,
But the agony that he knows,
That he may not deserve,
To in love serve,
The queen of his heart,
That is the dart,
That pierces his soul,
And makes his tears roll,
That is the latch,
That makes his terrors hatch.
That he will be found wanting,
In some way, in something,
And then be left alone,
In the darkness to moan.
