There was a man spent decades off to sea

Adrift in whorls and waves of augur flights

Something in his existence bid him flee

To avoid long and lonely fear-fraught nights


But now he is sharp’ning his iron will

And keeping his feet aground, firmly planted

He’s leaning on his gods with a secret thrill

For he’s learned to love all things enchanted


—-
Awakenings cut through thickest fog

Like light beams pierce through darkest night

  Illumining all of Gog and Magog,

  Winning them back at the end of the fight


He chose to believe and claimed the change

That sprouted within his weary chest

  Went forth not knowing domain or range

  And put-off longer his final rest
—-


A fond acquaintance said, “One suspects

No one really believes in God at their core...

  Else if they believed in the fiery effects,

  They’d be monsters not to proselytize more!”



So deep did it cut him, to hear this said,

That he cried as he held his acquaintance’s face,

And spoke, “Yes, and it’s I that should be dead,

If not for the glory and brilliance of grace”