Teresa of Avila
A cherub pressed me to my knees:
He held a flaming spear.
He struck again, and then again:
As much as I could bear.
I soon abandoned all desire
For this sweet pain to cease.
No other bliss compares to this
I greet this torment willingly.
I fondly hug the wound.
Love’s quarry, breathless, flees no more,
For she is run to ground.