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A L C Wolff May 2017
We bow, and twine our hands to worship that

Which perches in the steeple high above

And pour our sins into a troubled vat

That turns all violent thoughts to vicious love

Unfurling wings that scarcely make a sound

Abyss bound savior filled with heaven’s grace

Our mortal visions cease, it hits the ground

And murmured voices fade without a trace

Our innocence betrayed we dare to claim

That humans still deserve the gods that shine

Charred remnants of our avarice the same

As shadows used by that we thought divine

We bow repentant at its feet and pray

The angel spills our holy blood today

— The End —