Here the Angel of Sorrow stands

Wings carved of marble and stone
The hands reaching, blackened by past fire
The the eyes stare, cold and alone
They are there, burning with a cold, empty desire

The face is looking, twisted with agony and sorrow
The fingers stretched, looking for their purchase
The eyes are closed, as if never to face the morrow
The lips are stout, as if searching for the slightest caress

The stone upon which the angel stands is streaked with time
And the robes about the slender figure is old and worn
To not honor the angel and its sacred pedestel is such of hopeless crime
And there it stands, bare in happiness, so old and forlorn

The angel is portrayed in such a way of reverence and feeling
Her face is beautiful with every curve and square, the beauty of her seems to cry like a love-forbidden lark
For those who look upon her cloven face may feel its wrathful sting
For her face is thus of an immortal being, the spledor it radiates is not for the faint of heart

Here the Angel of Sorrow stands