Shod With His Good News

At reflections I not look
for my fears of what I will see,
The face of my countenance
will look far from what it should be.

My long beard and unkempt hair
way below my chest and shoulders,
A derranged man I must look
in the eyes of my beholders.

Crawlings I feel down my neck
and about my body hairs,
I scream and scratch at their itch
cleansing seem far from my cares.

Plagues of festering sores
my rotted out and falling teeth,
Crystaled yokes of addictions
ring my neck with death's jeweled wreath.

Wherever I seem to touch
a bag of bones I have become,
Not even on one's enemies
you would wish this to be upon.

Balms of myrrh nor frankincense
can rid me of death's rotting stench,
Only the flaming fires of Hell
I resign to from guilt can wrench

Hands from below grip my neck
whispering into my ear,
Man can sate all desires
for there is no one to fear.

My neck strains to ease his grip
barely looking at Him on High
Earnestly I pray do tell
is the voice from beneath a lie?

Just look at thine hands and feet
long claws of desire they show,
Cloven Hooves that run to him
both likened to the one below.

Your reflection I'll show thee
your bag of bones will surely quake,
When you see what he has done
my reprieve you will gladly take.

A spectre of death I see
my bones quake; is this a dream?
I've become like him below
my trembling lips finally scream.

My tresspasses please forgive
and take this sin that vexes me,
Fatten my bones with oils
and give me strength to follow thee.

Now my hands holds his Good Book
his words I desire to know,
My feet shod with his Good News
wherever He leads I will go...