the fog of carnal know how
from birth
is a bitter state of heart
deep within
where only the immaculate
precision surgery
of the sword
coming from the mouth of a lion lord
can articulate
the lack of real belief
but the bitter stings
of the swings
of a loving tongue
equip, in our lowly state,
the strength
to look beyond the dieing day
to the everlasting dawn
to attain true blindness
of the flesh
to sing abreast
the marvelous burst
of rising, like a lion roaring
with praying hands
we take this life
and burn in sacrifice
the sum, the part, the whole
