There is song beneath the ground on the threshold of the fortunate,
It would seem that fortune favors those it saw fit to divine:
The chosen ordinary ones, the righteous underserving ones,
The quarantined recipients of the ancient one’s decree.
They’re bound by more than destiny, caught in the will of mystery,
The fabric of the cosmos… but an overture to lavish:
That peculiar pottery, those particular anomalies,
Which are held the more securely than the grip of time and death.
We are held against our wills, though against our misery to gain,
Every penitence, we fleeting bear, are mercies that he gave,
Fated to be captivated by this terrible majesty,
To which end all creation sprung up to showcase and adore.
Here sprung these high walls towering, wherein the grief and darkness grow,
The dark communion of the earth blinding all that he has shown,
These walls were built to level the fields until mankind stood the same,
And yet were the sun to shine again, the sheep and goats remain.
It is the matter, here between, the darkened dusk and coming dawn
To then make known the day to all his lost creatures of the sun.
The enemies are mixed therein, they blur the lines of foes and friends,
But soon daylight will clearly cast the shadow of his standard.
That brilliant work is unfolding as the wings of mighty eagles,
Their shade begets a haven for all contrite and broken hearts.
The light pours past the rim, and then it incinerates the boundaries,
Consuming like a maelstrom those unsheltered by his passion.
Gently then, though without delay, the maker peals death away,
And all of us will stand anew, our flesh restored in glory.
The light is warm, the hazel breeze, caressing all their only needs,
To know and draw the nearer, praising, the glory of their king.
The Holy one, the arbiter, King and craftsman of creation,
The perfect lamb, the mighty lion, Ancient of the ages.
The Potter, free, the Servant, true, the only Sovereign of the Soul,
The Father, Prince and Counselor, Eternal and Mighty Lord.