Maybe I'm the one who held all the blame,
but you drank it deeply as a cup from my hand.
Or was I the one to wear the guilt,
though you pulled it from my finger as a golden band?
If I could confront that side of me,
would you still be drawn closer to my touch?
If I could rein in all the tide of emotion within,
without forseeing what is was or could have been,
how could any one man make the measure of my sin?
