Dear Lord, I'm forty-one today
and more than half my life I've spent
residing in this nunnery
because I was by Papa sent.

My mother dead and he too sick
to raise a daughter all alone,
he prayed to you, "What should I do?"
Your answer in a dream was shown.

As Bethany a girl arrived,
but here I'm known as Sister Claire.
Within this cloister 'hind thick walls,
I spend my evenings knelt in prayer.

Few know the life a nun must lead.
her daily tasks, her strict routine.
I tend the gardens every day,
yet what I do is seldom seen.

From Gothic windows way up high
I'll watch young love--a girl and boy.
They'll smile a lot, their eyes will shine.
Her wiles, his words I much enjoy.

The moon's so bright, the breeze is soft.
He'll hold her close and then . . . they've kissed.
That's when I always turn away
and start to weep for all I've missed.

Much love, dear Jesus, thou returns,
yet for romance my sad heart yearns.