Brace the Lord's

A tale of the purifying.

Merry to the wives, the children and the saints—
“Let Thy spirit be shed,”
And vowed blood runs free.
*
By Heavens—
I was cast into a sad place.
The solidness of my face washes me in a child language.
But neither the dream, nor stars at night,
Could carry me home the way I was

Yet if our breath be lifted under the heavy Sun,
And our forfeited eyes may pass the stories of our race—
Of the stony mountains, of the deepest rivers,
And in the pureness of visits
That has brought us down to our knees
And drawn us towards the thoughts that knew no sorrow—
As early as we became, was, by a crown of stale.

I repel the soft hands of Easiness,
For mine are not shattered, nor frail!

Temptation shall not bind me

Not only through words shall I faith mine be
But to be led once to darkness' lair,
And returned twice in the brightest night,
And thrice—
A Birthseed anew.

All sings to Heaven, my body shall weep!
All for the narrow, for the smallest of minds.

For the blind men, let I carry them my scepter.

For they shall brace the Lord's!
O, brace the Lord's own grace—
For the sake of our childhood's familiar embrace!

O Lord of Heaven—
*
You know I love Thee,
You know...
I love Thee.