A Rhyme out of Motley

"I grasped a thread of silver; it cut me to the bone—I reached for an apple; it was bleak as a stone—I reached for a heart, and touched a raw blade—And this was the bargain God had madeFor a little gift of speechSet a cubit higher than the common reach,A debt running on until the fool is dead."

Carve a Pater Noster to put at his headAs a curse or a prayer,And leave him there.