The Prisoner

How often do I set one vice against another
Thinking to escape while it claws its brother!
Should not the Lusting Slaver yield to Mammon,
With Fear and Avarice locked in savage backgammon?
Why should not Gluttony be fed on Shame,
And Anger's violence be burned by Blame?

Yet everywhere that pride is sown,
Have its thorny thickets also grown.
My offal ladder totters in a pit of slime,
Collapsing on itself before I start to climb.
A Killing floor of monsters in a human heart?
No! My soul's prison is their conflict's only art.
These gladiators' combat is a dance of glee;
They see my sideways thumb and mimic me.
I dare to say I recognize the beasts;
But for this wit I profit not the least.
I have no plumb of freedom in my hand;
I know the house is evil, but cannot change its plan.
I need a savior who does not sing this theme;
Who, facing vanity's clique, has overthrown its scheme.
His matchless purity, reviled and lifted up,
Exchanges for his surety my bitter cup.
Now I, who strained with Arrogance in Death's noose,
By Christ's faithful warfare have gotten loose.