You were given the godly power of man,
to make and mold young cherubim.
You were graced to ease them from a nest
and dole out their pairs of wings.
But you stole years and loves
and freedoms and prides.
You made their roses sick.
You knocked your angels out of the sky.
You made it too cold for them to fly.
As a fallen angel,
from down under the upper hand,
I hope that you make it.