Praise Be To Thee, Father

As faux be the woe of a rich man’s folly
So too do weak men dapple
In idols that puddle, befuddle and wilt
As it be from a fallen apple.
And as the burning bush did belt
The name of its minion’s manor
The swell of a spell from the darkness’ bell
Did toll on my heart-lit lantern.
Why then, ye ‘frain from mending the wound
By thy own’s most despised betrayer.
I know not why thou
say thou loveth him still
as he fell from heaven’s lair.
For as I plead for aide from thy son,
His enemy doth riseth to par
And racks me o’er and o’er with blood
And laughs at my worship of scars.

Thy kingdom is one of paradoxical claims
And thy knowledge I ache to acquire
Why men should fall to lose their life
To then save themselves from fire?
And while thou enemy doth liveth to say
That his commands I can’t but heed,
I’ll say thee win when my heart doth then
begin to silently bleed.
I’m dead to thee
Son of evil’s womb
I’m fallen, but risen, indeed.