A Lesser God

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Unless the details of this life,

those structures of the things I see,

are faded by Your Glory-light,

take back-seat to Your Majesty,

my eyes will always think they’re true

and fool my senses, charm my mind;

thus taught, my vision makes of You

a lesser god of lowly kind.

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The Friday Called Good

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Which of me is real,

and which is the hoax?

Lies parading as truth,

nightmares pretending to be certain,

make down look high

and sky resemble grave.

Just such a grave once swallowed the Truth,

spat on Hope,

beat Justice into submission;

my fists flailed Saviour,

my arrogance gripped hammer.

As Dark grew blacker still,

Light split its circumference,

and the worst Friday in history

became

Good.