Writhing and twisting and turning in vain,
Try to fit through, a tight crevice my bond;
Dark tunnel walls lit only by candle,
Light flickers through from the chamber beyond.

But the same call, the same voice, the same Love,
Beckoned me enter, through straits and in damp:
This same Love grabs me and chips at the wall,
Frees me, bids enter, rejoice in his camp.

All lit resplendently, no trace of damp,
No trace of crevices, dark, nor the fear;
Though this same Voice called me out of the cave,
This Voice is tender, his hands warm when near.