I'll be the Scourge of your Battles,
the cry unto the wind-to shake the sorrow from your soul.
I'll be the sword that cuts a swath of pain and rage to fall the demons seen in the night.
But Promise dear, my pure and gentle one,
that while my sweat runs red in in Battle
and my heart is scorched from hellfire,
send one sweet kiss of grace, from there on your knees you pray,
that it may redeem my broken soul from the grasp of all our woes.
Should the power of your prayers grace me home,
I pray, my deformed and mottled soul
does not prove too dark, for your pure touch.
I’ll be your unexpected soldier in the dark you’d rather not see coming.