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!
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