He can't afford a sacrifice,
the priests do not work cheap;
he's standing on the lip of Hell
considering a leap.
Will you walk beside him now
to the edge of the abyss,
and stay that final footstep,
preserve him with a kiss?
The money's gone, the game is up,
he's missed the gleaming prize;
there's cold within his lonely bones,
there's sorrow in his eyes.
He needs to know there's still a chance
to feel the brush of grace,
the lost caress of hopefulness
upon his aging face.
Throw the Tarot, toss the coins,
hear what the spirits say;
he needs a resurrection
on this January day.
So will you walk beside him now
to the edge of the abyss,
and stay that final footstep,
preserve him with a kiss?
For the world is gray and barren,
the land is deep in snow;
he's standing on the lip of Hell
with nowhere left to go.
  - mce