The Faith Chronicle: His Servants

We are clay at mercy inangel (2)
Your merciless hands
Shaped and moulded into
Abominations, relations to

The softer born, bodies warmed
By the fire, while we act as guards
In the cold, behold, the love and
Grace of our Creator, the likeness

Of our faces matched by his own
Prideful and loving to his angel
Children, stiff and rough with
The devils spawn, warm words

Trickle down closed throat, the
Blood of the mighty, the drink
Of the rich, we dare not sip it
For fear of redemption and

Walking among the finer things,
They walk rings around us, the
Sophisticated, challenging our
Posts, they know, one tiny morsel

Out of place we are chased by the
Veils of penitence, washed in holy
Water until our skin burns and leeches
Holy words, fires bright above their

Heads, high and prejudiced, hell fire
In the eyes of the truth, stolen from
The vaults of the underworld, with it
He gifts them with the power of

Knowledge, his seven tongued children
Roam these lands spreading praise,
Killing lambs, and cooking a feast of
Serenity, stone still statues we remain,

Standing in the harsher rain of abuse,
Shivering in this dampened form,
They dance before us, carrying troughs
Of food, starved and ravaged we are

Refused seats on the table with our
Lord, and as the centuries pass here,
We are ensconced in the dark and
Dreary hollows, forever fearful and
Obedient, as He has declared.


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