Psalm 15.

The angry face is an ugly face;

it is the face of the imp within us all.

Even the fairest, in anger, fair no longer,

the most angelic, in anger, fiendish.

It is a most distorting passion,

each brief instance a small insanity.

An oath, a harshness, a flash of force,

and see, the maniac is let loose!

Indeed, we are, in anger, all mad awhile,

all our faces, angry, ugly.

Who would be mad, knowingly?

Who would be ugly, willingly?

Where anger is, happiness is lost!

Where anger is, peace is not!

What sort of peace is it, is it peace at all,

the fragile space between fits of temper?

Of our indignation, how much is righteous,

how much mere private irritation?

Who is angry, who takes exception?

None but the imp, the imp of imperfection,

the one who is flawed, cracked and afraid,

who strives so hard not to fall asunder!