Like a flower chases the sun, he creeps upon me;
breathing a fleshly incantation, so earthly.
How tempting his sweet suggestion lingers;
What boredom must persist?
That the fallen angel of God’s fingers
Upon my idol mind insist?
Just one call upon His name liberates my sublime illumination
and you hide like a child, certain of eternal damnation
So what is your purpose here?
Endless badgering will only return the same answer;
In a moment of sorrow I may follow there,
yet faith will devour the deadliest cancer.
Can you flourish without His seed?
Upon the flesh of his children you feed?
You are lame, weak and wholly dependent;
All your grand schemes revolve around the maker
For what purpose would you have if truly independent?
you depraved scavenger and weak flesh partaker.
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