Before me the target to hit,
And wavering flew high the arrow,
Adjacent to strike aside of it.
Pulling hard once more the string,
I’m tempted to target yet again,
And letting fly the shaft and feather,
To miss the mark calling it sin.
Pray tell the bullseye so distant,
Yet to try and shout hark!
Mine aim thwarted as I quiver,
And once more missing the mark.