Ink Stains Poem by Christian Muller

Oh grant me blasted pen a rightful rhyme.
I need not rebel quills that turn their points
On helpless lords. Who strain and waste their time
On fruitless work. The ink that so anoints
The sacred page is kept from me. I swear
Foul pen. You'll find yourself within a bin
If you don't heed my call. I hardly care
To have your inky blood on my fair hands.
I am not Pilate pen. Who dared to wash
His hands of sin. I boldly would display
My inky hands in holy lands and say:
'Oh Israel weep! Behold my crimes and watch
How I have failed. Creator's blood does stain
My pagan soul. Which now on earth must so remain! '