Lo, I have tasted of forbidden goblets, whose wine is sweet upon the tongue but bitter in the marrow. Lust—thou art no fleeting fancy, but a tyrant clad in robes of pleasure. Aye, thou didst lead me from the chapel unto the brothel, from prayer to profanation, from discipline to damnation.
I have scourged mine own back 'til blood did flow like crimson prayer, hoping pain might cleanse what pleasure hath defiled. I have walked barefoot ‘cross thorned paths, seeking penance where mercy hides. But still, the face of my Lord turned not toward me.
Was it not lust that smote David, noble king, and led him to murder? Was it not desire that unseated Solomon from wisdom’s throne? Who then am I to stand, a mere knight, against such tide?
Yet, amidst the ruin, there came a voice—not wrathful, but weeping. Not the thunder of judgment, but the whisper of grace. Christ, who hung upon the tree, bore not only the nails, but my shame.

"Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow." (Isaiah 1:18)