Can I not escape this?
Returns, the fear
Returns, the pain
My only relief, the callous hands as they till the soil
My greatest fear, when night comes, when the soil cannot be tilled, when no one desires to work
Then, I must stare the demon in the face,
When he comes out from his  lurkung lair and endeavors to annihilate
Then, torture is breathing
Torture is the heart beating
Shall I go out into the field at night to nestle in the solace of the dirt, cast it upon on my head?
Shall I grasp the attention of He in heaven if I shall, in that same field of dirt, rip off my clothes and mourn and weep and fast? Shall the burning pitchfork of hell be removed, and its wounds cease?
Shall I for one moment gain any relief from the torment?
Is there nothing I can do? Anything? Name it;
If I have done wrong, then reprove me; if I have sinned, show me and forgive me, only be not angry with me.
Provide me with relief, for my soul is drowned in the abyss, unable to die and struggling each second for air, writhing and thrashing against unseen opponents
When shall I be put into the grave? Is it not soon? Can it not be made any sooner? Perhaps today?
For to die is better than to be subject to these throbbings and fits of throes
If there is but the least infinitesimal relief on any side, then I will not have to desire death;
Yet here comes the torturer to raise to the surface of the earth the buildings and cities of hell all around me,
To resurrect the pillars of its walls and gates, to flow its stream of steaming sulfure right over me


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