The howling wind that has no life,
Seeks my own with both blood and knife;
But in my God I will stand strong,
And if It think it’d win, it's dead wrong.
Woe unto thee, who like Lady Macbeth,
Would bash the heads of gentle babes;
Whose tongue seed discord amongst men,
You would end and your works go to naught.
You are but witches of the night’s wind,
Who seekst good thanes to betray the King;
Then when he’s fallen ye watch and sing;
In chants, and songs deserving of great scorn.
The blood of your hand shall be made flames,
And upon your body great worms shall feast,
As you watch your flesh wane, and bones grow.
The cords of your wilted heart shall hang strong.
And for all the day and night you would not die,
You would look with parched tongues to the sky
With eyes of the babes whose head you crushed;
But the Lord shall look and say ‘I know you not.’
And unto thee Heaven was given in prime
But you choose instead rubies, and gold, Dirt,
Kingdoms, riches and the pleasures of the earth,
But even diamonds won’t stand the fires of hell;
And tried gold would simmer like molasses.
But in it your bones would stand their ground
They, and the worms that feast upon you.
This shall be the faith of all who neglect the Lord;
Who drew his son’s blood to quench the flames,
For all they that earnestly call upon his name;
Such are the elect, who shall sit with him in Paradise.
Copyright © 2009 Leslie Alexis