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By powers immortal can he words wield
Upon the obliging elements his voice doth heed
He guffaws at the jokes of the deafening thunder
But that lord of the heaven walks the earth a pauper.

The wildest seeds of the wicked one
Skitters, tails between hind legs
By this doth he marvel the town
Yet returns to his hovel to lick the dregs.

Laws are his fancied findings
He digs them up from ancient grounds
He commands the armies of the heavens
Yet shamefully in the streets hunger his soul hounds.

What mystery preys upon noble grace
That the very least he rules drools upon his mace?
What faintest delight gainest the Holy One
To behold for ages the troubles of His own?

Perhaps the inner child must to the Father in hightail run
The conqueror must his sword lay down
What bringest Him joy than wholeness -
Grace that truly every ashes touches?

 - Martins Deep

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