Lately I've been fascinated by Christian writer Dietrich Bonhoeffer. I first read his quotes from writers like Phillip Yancey and John Ortberg. After reading his biography, I was surprised to discover that Bonhoeffer died in a Nazi concentration camp. Here is a poem he wrote from prison, entitled "Who Am I"

(hehe Dez: 24601!! I'm JEAN VALJEAN!!)

Who am I? They often tell me I would step from my cell's confinement calmly, cheerfully, firmly, like a squire from his countryhouse.

Who am I? They often tell me I would talk to my warden freely and friendly and clearly, as though it were mine to cmand.

Who am I? They also tell me I would bear the days of misfortune equably, smilingly, proudly, like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which other men tell of, or am I only what I know of myself, restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat, yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds, thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness, trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation, tossing in expectatino of great events, powerlessly trembling for friends at an ifinite distance, wary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making, faint and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I? This or the other? Am I one person today, and tomorrow another? Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others, and bfore myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling? Or is something within me still like a beaten army, fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine.