Great

How oft outspoken did surmount the perilous, perilous, pagan's flaunt to ask for hope, to gather fount to see it through, this empty blight. And then condition not my faith in its perdition, know not chaste reaction improvising wait ~ please end, I beg, within irate! The truth not skill, it is a blight of endless ill, of underrate, thee noble friend, askew my fate in detriment's offense out-state! The bow be broken, I relate the feather grafted, conscience plate, I fly unscathed without the date ~ of God's reunion, His soul's mate! And thank thee then, what e'er thee hate and thank thee then, I love thee . . . great!