Shadows danced in the hermits cave
from the tiny light his candle gave,
he washed his face, but did not shave.
All his life he was a knave,
his Bible said, the souls a slave.
So, he left all the things to crave,
redeemed by God, but can't behave.
Covered by God, Hells fire to stave.
Pacing in prayer, saints paths to pave,
blowing out the candle, a stub he'll save.
Copyright © Christopher Bunton | Year Posted 2012
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